


Lost in the Jump Lane

by jendavis



Series: A Fight Called You [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Awkwardness, Coming Out, Daryl Dixon Needs to Use Actual Words, Fake Science, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Jesus (Walking Dead) Needs a Hug, M/M, Main Characters Fucking Shit Up Worse, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Mystery, People being stubborn, Science Fiction, Side Characters Fucking Shit Up, Silent Treatment, Slow Build, Space Opera, Spaceships, Suicide, Talking Like Adults OMG, Unevenly Distributed Apocalypse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Worries about abuse that do get addressed, allies to friends to lovers, families of circumstance, now what, road trip in space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 139,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: If Colony One is to survive past the fifty-year mark, it needs help.  Set adrift on the far end of the galaxy, the Council is in shambles and the Saviors are taking over.  The colony's only hope for survival is a long-shot mission on a stolen research vessel.They need a steady supply route.  They need reinforcements.  They need to re-establish contact with allies on Earth- they need to find out if they evenhaveany allies on Earth- and they need to know that it's not already too late.Could be, they're just trading one war for a much larger one.  Could be that they won't even survive long enough to find out.But it could be, too, that somewhere along the way, this whole damn thing might actually prove to be worth it.





	1. Chapter 1

_Tuesday, 05/27/2194, 08:04_

Paul wakes slowly and reluctantly, burying his face in the pillow. It takes a few minutes to talk himself into batting up at the switch on the control panel, and even then, he keeps his eyes closed. Not in anticipation of any harsh brightness; more the opposite. The LED strip behind the ceiling grate gives doesn't give off much light, but what there is is sharp. It has an unpleasant way of refracting against the metal walls under the too-thin coat of drab gray sealant. 

There's no pretending that he's anywhere other than where he is, not that he really knows, in the grander sense of things. But after a week, at least this room's become familiar. He can reach the built-in cabinets without getting out of bed, as there's only maybe a foot and a half of floor space running between them. The blanket he'd hung off the top bunk- to block the narrow window running alongside the mattress- is prone to sagging, but not enough that he's actually decided to do anything about it yet.

All that window's shown him so far, whenever he's looked through the thick plastiglass, is his own reflection. The dark nothingness on the other side had terrified him at first; now it's just _boring_ , barely worth the effort of twitching the blanket aside. If he waits long enough, he'll catch the faint streak of a nearby star that'll be gone before he's even registered it; the odds are equally good that he'll miss it by blinking. 

He lets the blanket fall back into place and shoves himself up, his hand reminding him that it's still there, still sore, but better than it's been. Kicking his legs out of the covers, he just sits, for a minute, trying to decide if he needs a shower, or merely just wants one. 

The clock on the control panel informs him that he's been asleep for _maybe_ four hours; on the other side of the door are sounds of life, carrying on without him. 

Today, it's Mitch, trying not to shout. Daryl, from the sound of it, isn't.

Paul stands up, stretches, and straightens out his thermals. The right leg's gotten all twisted around his calf in his sleep. Drumming his knuckles on the too-short ceiling, he drags the gray coveralls off of the top bunk; one of yesterday's socks comes with it. He has to rummage for the other one; it's fallen onto the tiny desk wedged into the space between the foot of the bunk and the wall. 

Cranking the door open once he's dressed, he steps out into the corridor, back-stepping immediately to avoid the sound of Daryl's footsteps coming this way. Paul doesn't shut the door- that would be a dead giveaway- but he does pretend to look for something in his empty cabinets until he hears him pass by. Once the coast is clear, he heads for the bathroom. 

Dwight's in the common room staring blankly down at the nav systems training module on his tablet. Mitch looks up, though, offering him a relieved nod that's clearly more about who Paul _isn't_ than who he is. 

"You're not on the clock for another four hours," he says, looking concerned, which Paul tries not to take personally. It's bad enough being on a ship's crew knowing that you've got no idea what you're doing. It's probably worse to be one of the few who _does_ have a clue. 

"Couldn't sleep," he shrugs, stating the obvious. _Nobody's_ used to the schedule yet. At least when he, Sasha, Dwight and Daryl can start pulling shifts on the bridge, they'll switch over to six hour shifts instead of eight. It might not be any better, but it couldn't be any worse. "Gonna go back to work on the inventory, run through the navigation module before later." He stretches his arms, though not as much as he'd like to. "Figured I'd see about getting a shower first."

"Hope you like freezing your ass off," Dwight smirks, not quite tearing his eyes away from his tablet. 

"Seriously?" Fucking _Spencer_. "Again?"

There's no brig on this ship. He wonders, not for the first time, how long that will last. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/01/2194, 11:25_

The claustrophobia ain't as bad, this time around. 

All Daryl really remembers of the trip from Earth is sitting on his ass in front of a computer in the training hall, and hanging out with Merle in the commons whenever the Stars not Bars participants- SB's or Sonsabitches for short- were released in the afternoons for integration.

Merle, bein' only halfway out of prison, hadn't minded the ship. 

"Ain't all that different," he'd said, taking the deck of cards Daryl'd passed him, starting a slow, two-handed shuffle. "Can't leave. Gotta report for training when the man says so, sleep when the man says so. Work when the man says so. But, shit, the exercise equipment won't give you lockjaw the moment you touch it. The women might, but at least they're _here_ , know what I mean?"

"Ain't no sun, though," he'd said, mostly to derail that line of thought before it had a chance to take hold. "Just deal, already."

There'd always been this tense awareness he'd had to keep in the back of his head, when it came to Merle. That at any minute, just for the hell of it, he'd do something or say something that would fuck things up for both of them. Merle had been keepin' his nose clean since getting on board, but the _so far_ had still been always been there, waiting in the wings. 

"No sun means there ain't no bombing raids, either." Merle'd frowned, once they'd had a minute or two to examine their hands. "You doin' all right over crewside? Assholes given you any trouble?"

"Only asshole I'm seein' out here is you," he says, reaching to flip the top card of the pile between them over. "Y'can't shuffle for shit, man."

\--- 

Things ain't so different this time around, besides Merle not bein' here. Which, given how small the RV is, is probably for the best. It's fucked up, thinkin' like that, so he tries not to think about it at all. 

And he's got plenty to do, anyway. Far more than he'd had on the trek out to the colony. 

As far as the basic life support systems go, it's the same hardware he'd worked with on the colony- airlocks and water filters and wiring and power lines- just lighter, smaller. Maybe flimsier, maybe not. Even the job queue software is identical to what he's used to. 

But there's some shit- drive maintenance, emergency protocols, artificial gravity calibration, learning how to fly a goddamned ship through hyperspace and how to _land_ the damned thing- that's taking some time to get down. Which is why he probably doesn't need to be camped out in the medbay, poring through procedures and schematics like there weren't half a dozen other things he could be doing. 

He frowns back down at the surgical bot ops manual, but only gets as far as tracing the data tether back to the scanner before his eyes are snapping back- _again_ \- to the shelf where they've left Carl. 

He's heard everyone's assurances; they haven't started meaning anything yet, but he's heard them. 

There's no telling, through the frosted plastiglass, if he's getting worse. But it ain't like he's getting any better. Eyes don't fix themselves, after all, and the closest they've got to having an actual doctor on board is Mitch, who'd gone through a medic rotation with NATOPS four or five years back.

The only thing Daryl knows for sure is that it's all going to come down to the tech, and whether or not they can get the machines to just fucking _talk_ to each other correctly.

There's a tapping on the open hatch, and Sasha's coming through, stepping around the desk he'd folded down.

"You think they're celebrating back home?"

"What?"

"It's the half-centennial today." 

Sure. Everyone's probably in their cell, or out in the yard, battling for Negan's amusement. It'll be a blast. Instead though, he just nods. Half-centennial or not, it ain't happening _here_. Ain't his problem. 

Apparently he's supposed to have something to say on the matter, because Sasha's frowning at him. "You okay?"

"Peachy." If it ain't the answer she's lookin' for, she shouldn't've asked. 

"You don't have to be down here," she says- as if sitting in his cramped quarters ain't already something he's done to death- as her feet lead her over to the the stasis chamber.

"Someone should be."

Staring in at Carl, she seems sad, like everyone always does. At least until she turns, shoulders squared. She's trying to hide frustration, maybe irritation, and she ain't doing a great job of it.

"Daryl, we have to couch the possibility that it could be kinder to let it wait. Less stress on him."

"Yeah." 

"And it's going to take Mitch some time to train up."

He raises the manual for the surgical bot, which hasn't suddenly started tellin' him otherwise in the past two minutes. "I know." 

"So maybe don't bite his head off." Her voice is clearer. Has an edge to it that he's getting used to seeing, now that she's second in command in all but name. "He didn't sign up for that shit, all right?"

"Well, Carl didn't sign up to get his face blown off, either."

Sasha sighs. "All I'm saying is that there's a lot of pain he's not feeling right now. And we're not ready to _handle_ him right now. The best we can do is get our ducks in a row before we go waking him up."

"The hell do you think I'm doin', here?"

"Brooding. And I'm not saying you don't have your reasons, but-"

He nods, cutting her off because he doesn't really need to hear all this shit again. "You think we'll get around to it before we get to the relay station?"

She shrugs. "Even if it doesn't, we'll at least be able to tell them that we're working on it, and that he's safe. Might not seem like much, but it's something."

He hopes so. It might suck up here, in the medbay of a ship that hadn't been built for the kind of trip they're taking, pretending like he can see anything of Carl's face besides the gore, but at least he can read the monitor. Rick and Michonne are back on the colony with no information at all, if they're even still _alive_. 

The Saviors had cut a swath from the Admin gate all the way down to the perimeter, and if not for Glenn getting caught on the hangar side of the fighting, Carl would've gone down where he'd fallen, his life in Negan's hands. 

"You get anywhere with the water situation?" Sasha changes the subject, finally, but it's hard to tell whether it's the reason she'd come down here, or the excuse. 

"Yeah, just need to get the okay from Connor." He shuts the tablet off; it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room; he's been staring at the thing for hours. "Just gotta run a line from the system to the pump. Might have to refit a valve or two, but it all looks standard. But it ain't gonna do any good 'less those squints get it through their damned heads that they ain't the only ones needin' showers." 

"It's not just them. It's not even _both_ of them."

He gives her a level look, and she shoots it right back at him. 

_Fine_ , he decides, getting to his feet. He ain't got nothing but time up here anyway. Might as well waste some more of it.

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/01/2194, 13:01_

Laura's coming up out of the cargo bay when Paul finally enters, giving him a tired nod as she passes. "Only got a bit more, the four stacks down at the end. You were right, there _is_ another crate of sealant. It was just shoved over by the kitchen stuff. But everything's clear for the medbay, if you and Spencer want to start hauling it over there."

Paul grimaces. "Sounds good."

"All right, I'm gonna go grab Dwight and head on up. You're all set for shadowing, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm on with Mitch in a few hours. Any advice?"

"You know that look he always gets? Like the ceiling's about to cave in?"

"Yeah?"

"He's always like that. Don't take it personally."

\--- 

Spencer, of course, is about as eager to pitch in as he usually is, but Laura had made a suggestion, not an outright command, and Paul's not a martyr, so he doesn't press. Besides, it's not like he's having to haul everything up to the bridge; the medbay is on this level, and there are no steps. The crate lift will work well enough. 

The cargo bay's starting to look manageable; they've already moved the first dozen or so crates out. The collapsed empties are locked down by the loading bay door, and there's definitely more room to maneuver than there'd been a week ago. Soon, once they've gotten the living and work areas fully stocked, the surplus locked down, and the hydroponics set up, they'll finally be able to set up the workshop and exercise equipment that Mitch and Laura have been waiting for.

Paul makes his way to the far end, and confirms the contents on last two crates of food. They've got more than enough, which is great, considering how awful it all is. He shoves them over, gets them locked in the stack along the opposite wall where they belong, and labels them _K-9_ and _K-10_ respectively. 

Back in corner of the mess he'd been tackling, he finds the WC-3, the missing crate of toiletries that should've been six stacks back. He also smacks the back of his head on the crate lift armature when he stands up, and bites the side of his tongue. 

There are two crates where the inventory indicates there should be only one. The top is filled with undergarments and coveralls for a crew of 20, which should keep them clothed easily enough, as long as nobody's too picky about size. 

He figures that the bottom crate will be more of the same- or some other overstock that dockside hadn't felt like loading back out- but he's wrong. 

He's very _happily_ wrong. 

There are a few dozen books. 

A few packs of old playing cards that could probably be reconstituted to make a complete set. 

Three, no, four unlabeled data drives, and a player to go with them. 

And a case of colony whiskey, with a handwritten note scrawled across the cardboard lid that reads _anti-mutiny serum_. Opening the box, he finds it only only three-quarters full, but that's still nine more bottles than he'd expected to find, and the rest of the space is taken up by three vacuum-packed packages of coffee. It's four years old. In the same hand, just above a four year old date-stamp, someone's written _anti-anti-mutiny serum. If you think you have enough on board, you're wrong_.

\--- 

Thanks to the racket, Daryl'd been vaguely aware of the crate lift knocking around in the corridor, and half the ship must've heard it hitting the doorframe, but the cursing's new. 

He hadn't figured Rovia'd even known half of those words. 

"Need some help?"

"No. Ah. I mean..." Rovia squeezes past the crates, leaning around them to try looking into the medbay, an irritated frown on his face. He sighs, then disappears behind the lift, and for a moment, Daryl just watches. The crates retreat, slightly, out into the corridor, then back forward at the exact same angle that hadn't worked the first three times around. 

It's kind of sad, how many times Rovia gets it caught on the exact same water-line housing. At this rate, all he's going to do is get it stuck sideways, wedged between the wall on this side, and a sealsuit closet on the other. 

"Here, back up." Daryl squeezes through the mostly-blocked door, checking that the stack's locked down before wedging his shoulder against it from the side. Rovia's got the controls, and between the two of them, they manage to rock it back and forth on two wheels until it's pointing in the right direction. At least the medbay hatch is wider than the others, and built into the floor instead of the usual three inches above it. 

Then again, it might've just been quicker not to use the damn lift in the first place. 

"Sorry," Rovia says, pushing the freed crates through the door. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's cool." There hadn't been shit _to_ interrupt, but he shrugs. "This everything?"

"Just the cold crates left," Rovia says, from the other side of the stack. "Don't know where Mitch is going to want them. Figured I'd get everything else squared away first." 

When Daryl steps back, he catches sight of a swath of grease along the shoulder of Rovia's coveralls. 

He ain't sure why he notices. They're the same gray Techniki standard issue that most everyone's been living in since Sasha'd doled them out their second day out. So far as Daryl knows, Spencer's the only one who ain't getting his hands dirty enough to see the use in them. 

It takes him a minute to realize the clothes and the dirt ain't what's making Rovia look so out of place. It's the way he's standing in the middle of the medbay, staring at Carl's shelf, like he's forgotten what he'd come in here for. 

"So," Daryl says, "we gonna load these out or what?"

"Oh!" Rovia turns, shaking his head and blinking. "Sorry. Thanks, I can handle it. Didn't mean to interrupt."

It's the second time he's said that inside of two minutes, and it's not any more real a concern this time around. 

It's already 15:00, Daryl realizes. "Ain't interruptin' shit," he admits, twisting the dials to separate the crates from their locked-down pile. He hefts the top crate down off the stack and sets it on the desk, which thankfully holds long enough for him to adjust his grip and move the crate to the floor. There's a cubby in the wall; he shoves his tablet clear of the oncoming debris. "You go up for shadowing yet?"

"Got switched around, so Dwight's up there now." Rovia takes the second one off, setting it heavily on the floor and shoving it towards the middle of the room. "I'm with Laura after dinner. You?"

"Me and Sasha are tomorrow. Got Connor, I think."

For the next little while, there ain't much that needs to be said. Boxes of bandages and shelf stable meds go into the cabinets, the sanitizers and wipes go over by the sink. There's a lot of things piling up on the counter that neither of them know what to do with, yet. By the time they're getting into the third crate, it's spreading out onto the fold-out desk, too. 

"Should get Mitch down here to check everything out," Rovia eventually mutters, setting the last box of sensor attachments down on the floor next to Carl's wall. He's shaking his head as he stands, and looks back over his shoulder. "I have no idea what I'm doing, here."

"Me neither." Hopefully, he's only talking about the medbay setup, and not the bigger picture. Just in case, he adds, "Where are we with the kitchen setup?"

"Think we're getting the last of it sorted this evening. Probably going to want to set up a relay or something, otherwise those steps are going to be a nightmare."

Daryl nods, refusing to point out how much easier it would be had certain engineer squints not decided to pull out the lift armature just to save a little bit of weight. 

As soon as the crates are folded down, Rovia props them up on the lift and starts wheeling it back out of the room. But he stops short of the door, and looks from Carl back over to him with a wary expression on his face. 

"You think he's okay?"

He hadn't been expecting a question, much less _that_ one. Which is why, after a minute of him standing there trying to think of an answer, Rovia leaves without one.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sunday, 06/01/2194, 19:52_

Theoretically, Paul can understand the logic behind eating dinner together every evening. Cooking for everyone at once saves energy. Eating together strengthens interpersonal relations between the crew. Structured routine staves off ship-wide insanity. Doing it at shift change allows the night shift to hear anything they might've missed while sleeping during the day.

So far, though, all it seems to have done is provide new things to argue about. 

Who's in charge of cleanup? Who's in charge of cooking? What, of the underwhelming options available, will everyone deign to actually _eat_? And, most pressing, why hadn't they spaced Spencer the moment they'd had the chance? 

Across the table, Connor looks like he's wondering the exact same thing, though he's polite enough not to say so. Sasha seems to be working up to it, though, drilling a wide-eyed glare into the back of Spencer's head as he continues his tirade. 

"… so I don't understand why it is that rice and oatmeal have the same exact consistency, or why that consistency has to be so far removed from what either of them are _supposed_ to be."

If anything, Paul supposes, at least Spencer's doing more to unite the crew than anything else they'd come up with. Uniting them _against_ him, sure, but it's a start. 

"If you didn't want to spend six months eating ship's rations," Laura says, talking with her mouth full. The tattoo on her neck flexes as she swallows. "You could have avoided it quite easily by not _being_ here."

"All I'm saying is that we've mastered interplanetary travel. Draining basic _grains_ shouldn't be that much of a technological leap."

"Fine," Sasha says. "You _clearly_ feel strongly about the problem, so how about this. Starting tomorrow- and until we either land, or crash and burn- _you_ can take care of the cooking."

Spencer smirks, but the moment stretches out and nobody else is jumping in. "You're serious?"

Sasha raises her eyebrow at Connor, who, unsurprisingly, shows no signs of wanting to get involved, and then around the rest of the table. 

Laura shrugs, standing to go relieve Mitch and Dwight up front, and looking happy for the excuse to be excused. "Great idea, I was thinking, it's starting to get dull up in here, what with all that _not dying of malnutrition_."

"All right, that's two of us in favor," Sasha nods, mock serious. "Paul? Daryl?"

"Might as well," Daryl glances up at Sasha, looking bored. "Ain't like he's makin' himself useful anyplace else."

"Right, because _you_ are going to have a chance in hell of convincing anyone to re-establish interplanetary support."

If he's trying to get a rise out of Daryl, it's not working- he doesn't even look up from his rice-meal- but Sasha's leaning forward. "If you're banking on your diplomatic skills, you should probably start exhibiting some, you know. Before anyone catches on that you're full of shit."

"Like I said," Spencer rolls his eyes dismissively. "The only reason I haven't given you the details is that you've already _sabotaged_ the colony's mission. You've yet to give me any reason at all to trust _any_ of you."

Paul braces his elbows on the edge of the table, keeping his voice level. "Fair enough. But we're all stuck here together, and six months is a long time." 

"And resources are limited," Sasha picks up the thread, sounding a bit more confident. "You're the only one here who hasn't earned any of them yet." 

In the kitchen, Dwight and Mitch are getting their food sorted out; when they step out into the commons, Mitch smirks. 

"Uh-oh. Who's going ass-first out the airlock?"

"Nobody," Connor replies, his tone making the _yet_ implied yet deniable. "How'd it go?"

Dwight shrugs, but Mitch nods, stepping around the table to the open seat next to Spencer. "Gonna want to go through the modules a few more times to lock it all down, but far as I'm concerned, another few shifts and he'll cleared for copilot, long as he's with you, me or Laura."

"Excellent. Nice work, Dwight."

Dwight blinks, surprised, and digs into his food. "Uh. Sure. Thanks."

"Hey Rovia, Laura'll be ready for you whenever you get done. No need to hurry." Mitch tells Paul, examining the rehydrated vegetable matter on the end of his fork blandly. Taking a bite, he seems to rethink his stance. "Not that I'd blame you if you did."

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/01/2194, 20:20_

The bridge has seats for two, but like most of the rest of the ship, it's cramped and uncomfortable. 

"It's by design," Laura says, easing back to adjust her seat now that she's done pointing out all of the emergency controls. "Don't want anyone falling asleep at the helm, you know?"

"Yeah," he says, eyes still on his dashboard. Most of the controls and readouts are dark, but otherwise they're exactly the same as Laura's. 

"Don't worry about those just yet," she says, a moment later. "You'll get used to them."

"Just trying to memorize them." 

"Uh-huh."

"What?"

She shrugs. "Most people, their first time out here, can't tear their eyes away from the shield."

He has to force himself to do so, but at least he's quick enough that she does't call him out about it. 

There's not much to look at, but the jump lane's different, seeing it head-on. The stars aren't blinding or bright, but they're in his field of vision long enough to actually get a lock on them. It's like looking up through the membrane after a storm's passed.

Oddly enough, now that he's looked, he can't tear his eyes away. "Were you around for that meteor shower? About four years back?"

"Think I was on the Endeavor for that- here, see that button there? Press it and it'll bounce long range sensors to your station- I heard about it, though."

He blinks at her. "I'm just here for shadowing, right?"

"Which is navigating, which is, essentially, not crashing into debris in the jump lane, which is, essentially, driving lessons. But don't worry, I'm not gonna let you kill us all." She shuts off her own display. "All right. Let me know if we're going to hit something."

Taking a breath, and swallowing a curse, he looks at the screen. 

The ship doesn't immediately explode, and they're not heading straight into the heart of a sun or anything, so after a minute spent confirming that there's nothing in their path, he settles back into his seat, and tries to give off the air of someone vaguely competent, who isn't sitting here by horrible mistake. Mostly to distract himself, he asks, "You been doing this long?"

"Two years flying fighters for NATOPS, figured I'd get out before my luck ran out, signed up for the SimRot."

"What?"

"Oh- you know how they rotate pilots for resupplies? You wind up going six months or longer without setting foot on a ship. And since your certifications run out every four months, well, simulator rotation. Eyes on your console."

"Gotcha." There's a discoloration edging up on the side of the long-rage readout. "Is that- ah, wait-"

"Dust and debris is red," she reminds him. "Ice is blue. Yellow is-"

 _Oh. Yeah._ "Gravitational field."

"Right. Normally, we leave it in automatic, but since you're here..." Hands on the wheel, she taps one of the floor pedals, and there's a slight shudder, weak enough that he wouldn't have noticed it were he not expecting it.

"Okay, when passing by a planet on your right, what is the most important thing to remember?"

"Check the heading, reroute power to the front starboard drives, two-to-one compensation." 

"I was going to say, _don't crash into it_ , but that's pretty much it." 

The status ring surrounding her screen switches from green to red, which can't be right- manual is orange, red is _disengaged_ \- but she's tapping the pedal again, and suddenly, the status ring around _his_ screen is going orange. "So get your hands on the wheel and give it a try."

\--- 

_Monday, 06/02/2194, 00:45_

He's getting used to the engine noise; it does a fairly good job of blocking out the near-constant chatter of voices echoing down the corridors, or the sounds of boots clomping down metal halls at all hours. The thing is, it all never really goes away, not even in the middle of the goddamned night. Someone's always up.

There's not much to look at, but the jump lane's different, seeing it head-on. So he gives up on the notion of sleep, climbs down out of bed, and starts sorting out the mess of tools that he'd left strewn all over the lower bunk while working on the shower timer. The last thing he needs is to get smacked upside the head with a screwdriver because the artificial gravity decides to break down. And honestly, there's a part of him that doesn't particularly want the pipe wrench lying around in here anyway. 

He packs it all up in the tote and makes his way down the corridor to the steps to the lower level. 

It's late, so he's trying to move quietly as he climbs down the steps, which is why he hears the noise coming from inside the medbay. 

A cabinet closing. A drawer opening. 

It's the middle of the night, and Carl's the only one who's supposed to be in there, and Daryl's brain is taking off in too many bad directions all at once. 

It's just Rovia, though. 

He's standing at the counter, his head leaning against the cabinet, and given the way he jumps when he notices Daryl in his peripheral, something ain't right. 

"You good?" He looks twitchy and irritable. Daryl hadn't pegged him for an addict, but it ain't like he knows him that well. 

"Got a headache. D'you know where the anaprox is?"

Merle used to get like that sometimes, back home. Distracted and stupid, twitching on his next fix. "Long as it's still in the cargo bay." 

"Oh. Yeah." Rovia pushes off from the counter, dragging his feet towards the door. 

Not sure of what else to do- and besides, he was heading that way anyhow- Daryl follows. 

"How'd it go?" He ain't lookin' to get caught up in some long drawn out conversation, but the question's out of his mouth before he can stop it. He'd been up to the bridge twice now, once to refit a display dimmer switch and once just to stare out over Sasha's shoulder as she navigated. Ain't that he's nervous about his turn, he's just aware that it's coming. 

The cold crates holding the ship's medicine are up against the interior wall, but the aisle, like the rest of the bay, is still cluttered with other supplies. Rovia follows him as he picks his way towards the wall. 

"Guess if you were going to find out how useless you are, it went okay. Alternated between hesitating on the controls and pressing every single one of them like a toddler with a tablet." He laughs weakly at his own joke. "On the bright side, Laura got back on and didn't let us crash, so...."

He should probably get the lift and move the spare drive charges out of the way, or at least lock them down someplace out of the way, but they'll keep for now. "Huh? Thought you were just s'posed to shadow." 

"Yeah." Rovia pulls an irritated face as he unlatches the lid of the cold-crate on the end of the row. "Turns out, when they say that, they mean 'these are the seats, and that is the wheel,'" he rocks his head irritably back and forth for emphasis, "'and out there is a planet's gravity field, so maybe you should try not crashing into it and killing us all.'" 

_What the fuck were you expecting, piano lessons?_ he stops himself from asking. And honestly, he hadn't been all that excited at the prospect of watching someone _else_ man the controls for four hours straight. 

By the same token, watching Rovia sort slowly through the bottles and boxes, scowling as he reads every single label, even when they're _clearly_ not what he's looking for, is getting annoying. The sooner he's got what he needs, the sooner the guy'll get gone.

The middle crate is mostly antibiotics and some other shit he can't identify, but half of it's taken up by a password-locked medical supply safe with Mitch's initials scrawled across the _to be distributed by medical personnel only_ label that's sealing the lid. He doesn't mention it to Rovia, in case the harder stuff _is_ actually what he's looking for, though Daryl ain't so sure about it now that they're down here. But underneath the antibiotics piled alongside it, he finds half a dozen boxes of anaprox. 

He hands it over and, duty thus discharged, sets his sights on the mess of crates and clutter blocking the aisle, and starts stacking some of the lighter ones into lockdown stacks next to the cold crates. By the time he's cleared most of it, Rovia's _just_ getting the last of the shit he'd rummaged out back into the crate, and is making himself comfortable at the end of the aisle. 

Prying open one of the packets, he swallows the pills dry, fidgeting with the box as he watches Daryl work. 

"What about you? What're you doin' still up? They have you on this all night?" 

He shrugs. If Rovia doesn't know what cleaning up looks like, it ain't on him to explain it. "Got the showers fixed."

Predictably, he replies, "What're we looking at for time?"

Crate EXT-21 should be over with the rest of the sensor array parts, but Daryl's going to need the lift to get it back into place. In the meantime, he pushes it to the head of the aisle. Rovia, at least, gets the hint and moves his feet out of the way. "Two minutes thirty per day."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, well. It beats buddying up."

"If you say so."

"Huh?"

Rovia shakes his head, smirking down at his feet as he shrugs. "I dunno. Tired."

"So go to fuckin' sleep, already."

"Yeah."

Still, though, he don't seem to be getting up. And the prospect of trying to get anything done while the squint's passing out in the middle of the goddamn bay is suddenly exhausting as hell. 

So Daryl gets two more stacks locked down, enters their new locations in the manifest, and leaves. 

\--- 

_Monday, 06/02/2194, 13:00_

The skies are smooth, all he's got to do is hold it steady. Two hours in, he has to compensate to get around the edge of an ice cloud, but that's about as exciting as it gets. 

After instructing him to lock in the course, Connor sits back in the pilot's seat and looks at him. "You're from Earth, aren't you."

"Yeah." Doing as he's told, Daryl switches off manual control; there's a shuddering in the engines, which smoothes out almost immediately. But Connor's still lookin' at him, like there's something interesting about his answer, which is odd, since he- at least up 'til now- hasn't seemed to be the type of guy to fill the room with a bunch of unnecessary yammering. "Why?"

Connor smirks. "Colony kids, for the most part can't drive for shit. It's as if the very notion of acceleration is a concept they've never heard of."

\--- 

Apparently, four hours is enough to clear him for co-pilot, and another four on top of that is all it'll take before he's cleared to solo between proximity alerts, though Connor tells him not to rub it in anyone's face because keeping something going in a straight line is, apparently, enviably noteworthy.

He gets that they're shorthanded, as far as this kind of thing goes, but it ain't like Connor can pick and choose as far as backup goes. Still, it's probably the sort of thing that would be disturbing as hell if he had the energy to really think about it. He's too tired to bother, though, still coming off the interstellar road hypnosis. 

There's box of anaprox waiting in front of his door with a note jammed inside. 

_Pro tip: these probably work best if you don't pass out on a crate in the cargo bay like an idiot, but other than that they do a good job on the whole death-grip-on-the-wheel issue. Bright side: the nausea doesn't last long._

He hadn't been feeling all that shitty- it's nothing that some coffee won't fix, at any rate- but it ain't until right now that he's starting to feel like a complete asshole. 

He ain't entirely sure why.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sunday, 06/08/2194, 05:01_

Shouting, downstairs. 

It's early, something's wrong, and he'd missed the alarm. 

"Fuck, just _hurry_ -"

As Paul stumbles out of his quarters, Daryl's voice rings up through the corridor more clearly. "Just put the fuckin' tablet down and help me get this side up!"

"Hang on, I need to check-"

"You _been_ checking!"

"Only 'cause you keep ripping _wires_ out and throwing them all over the goddamned place."

"You got a better way, you me know. Just. Hold that fucking end _up_."

"Fucking _move_ , then." 

Anything that's said in response is drowned out by his unsecured boots knocking against the rungs on his way down; by the time he's reached the bottom, Dwight's sounding like he's speaking through clenched teeth "...gonna end up flooding the system. Color coding's there for a reason." 

"You see any blue C7 lying around anywhere? Nah? It's cause there _ain't_ any- _get_ your fucking hands offa me."

"Then step the fuck _back_ -"

There's a loud scraping noise as Paul steps around the systems access room behind the steps, just in time for Daryl to stumble back into him, nearly knocking them both over. Daryl's quick to extricate himself, though, stalking back towards the toolbox.

"Everything all right?"

" _Fine_ ," both snarl back at him with enough vehemence that he's pretty sure that at least he's managed to unite them- at least momentarily- against himself. Dwight's got the condenser unit propped against the wall with his knee so that Daryl can get in with the driver. As soon as it's secured, Daryl's dropping his tools onto the carry-all, adding a few more from the pockets of his coveralls, and shoving past him with a dead-eyed glare.

Paul can't help scanning the pile of tools for a wrench. Not immediately noticing one, he can't help wondering if that's a good thing or not. 

Dwight, for his part, is back on his tablet, but after a moment he glances up, face grim and shuttered. "It's all good for now." Either all his vehemence had evaporated the moment Daryl'd left the room, or he's just wary of stirring up more shit. "Update will be in your queue soon as I get back up and run a diagnostics sweep." 

As if _that's_ what Paul's concerned about. 

He should be, though, and probably will be once he's woken up properly. A flooded condenser isn't an emergency in and of itself, but left unchecked, moisture in the drive definitely _will_ be. But all that's sinking in at the moment are the shadows under Dwight's eyes, the sounds of the rest of the ship trying to decide whether to wake up or roll over to go back to sleep, and the suspicion that he's probably coming off like some sort of useless micromanaging moron, standing around here in his socks and thermals like this. Just staring.

Turning on his heel, Paul heads up the steps. His mood isn't helped any by Spencer's sneering face sticking out into the corridor.

"Isn't it your job to stop the macho Techniki bullshit _before_ it gets started?"

He says nothing, just rolls his eyes as he trudges past. He's still got eleven hours before he's supposed to report up to the bridge for another round of shadowing; he wants to sleep for all of it. But just as he's heading into his own quarters, relegating himself to the reality of getting back on the system to catch up, Sasha's poking her head out of hers. Seeing him, she frowns, gives him a beckoning wave, and nods up towards the commons. "I'm thinking we should talk, quick."

Helping herself to the carafe someone'd prepped at the start of his shift- he shakes his head no when she offers it up- she sits down on the bench underneath the window, shoving the box of books he'd found to the side. Someone's been going through them, but from the looks of it, nothing's really piqued anyone's interest. Not that they've had the time, he supposes. Maybe they're just not that _bored_ yet. 

Most everyone here has a lot of work to do. Like making sure the jump drives don't explode, or showing up an hour late to a ship-wide emergency.

"You all right?"

He leans his head back against the plastiglass and closes his eyes. "Me? Yeah. Tired, slept right through the alarm."

She sips her coffee, tucking a tuft of hair back into the thick braid without any real focus. "There wasn't one. I noticed the readings looking a bit hight on shift, mentioned it to Dwight. He woke Daryl up, didn't see any use in rousing the crew."

"Not sure that went entirely to plan." 

"Both of them still standing?"

"Both unscathed, far as I can tell, but... if they're coming to blows over a simple repair job, what's going to happen when the shit hits the fan?" 

"You really didn't leave Admin all that often, did you?"

He looks up at the ceiling. Barely has to narrow his eyes against the thin, greasy light. He really should've done something. Said something. Fixed it. But he manages a grimace. "See, you say that, all that's telling me is that Techniki are all about assaulting people for no good reason."

A moment later, close enough that him having been heard is inevitable, Dwight strides past the commons on his way up to the bridge; he doesn't glance over at either of them. 

"On the bright side, at least they're getting the kinks worked out before the shit _does_ hit the fan." Her confident tone makes him sit up and take notice; after a moment, she continues, more quietly. "I mean, they're both good, but shit got off to a weird start between them. Negan, and everything."

It's maybe the third time anyone's mentioned that name since getting on board; Sasha frowns, and he wonders if, like he does, whenever it happens, she's waiting for him to materialize out of nowhere like some monster out of a storybook. But when nothing happens, she continues. "Dwight, with his memory shit, he's got to stay organized, you know? Has to be more deliberate. Daryl's more of an improviser. _And_ he's impatient as hell."

"Yeah, I got that," he sits up, glances out into the corridor, watching for anyone else. Privacy's hard to come by. "Best I can hope for from Daryl is that he flags his jobs completed when he's done with them. Any actual information? Might as well be pulling teeth."

"Well, if it helps, you could always try just telling him to do it."

_Yeah, well, he's obeyed crueler orders with no problem_. 

His hands are on his knee already. She probably doesn't see them digging in. "I'm sure he'd love that."

"Doesn't matter, I'm serious. He's jumping lanes, here, same as everyone, you know? Back home, dealing with all the systems shit was Rick's job."

"Yeah, but. I know it takes two to tango, and all that, but Dwight's not starting shit." Not that he's sure of it. The man's generally shown himself to be amenable and easygoing; it doesn't mean he doesn't have his limits. "And at least he keeps us in the loop as far as operations go."

She runs a hand over her face, blinking at her cup for a few moments before fixing him with a measuring gaze, and leaning close, in deference to the thin metal walls. "This is all in the interest of keeping things running smoothly on board, right?"

"Of course." Even to his own ears, it sounds glib, maybe patronizing, though she doesn't call him on it. "I mean, you don't have to get into it-"

"Those detailed reports Dwight makes? They're the side effect of a head injury. From a few years back. He _has_ to write shit down because he knows he won't remember it." Sasha's shaking her head, frowning as she sorts through whatever she is and isn't about to tell him. "And as far as Daryl goes, here's the thing. I think it just takes a while for Daryl to catch on that people might actually want to hear what he has to say. And a while after that for him to actually work up to it."

"You still talking work orders, here?"

"I'm talking _everything_."

There are a lot of questions he could be asking. Most of them aren't any of his business. And if they're talking matters of trust, here, maybe pushing too firmly is a slimy route to take. 

"How long are we talking?" Hearing his own words, he's suddenly all too aware of her eyes on him as she reaches her hands over her head. 

"Depends." Her voice is as stretched as her arms are. But when she opens them again, looks at him, there's a level of satisfaction there that hadn't been evident a moment ago. Relief, maybe, or just confirmation of something she's already thinking. "But it'll go a lot quicker if you talk to him first."


	4. Chapter 4

_Tuesday, 06/10/2194, 19:45_

"At least you remember what the hell all the controls _do_ ," Dwight refills his and Sasha's coffee cups with a familiarity that itself is becoming familiar. 

"Yeah, I just stab randomly at them in a blind panic the second they let me at them." Paul grumbles. "Which is _so_ much better." 

"You're both doing fine," Sasha sighs. "It's not like we don't know that all this is _way_ outside our regular scene."

"Says the one who was cleared for _solo_ on her first try," Paul points out.

Sasha shrugs. "Dockside had training emulators. Had to kill time somehow." 

There's a clattering noise in the kitchen, and Spencer's calling out. "Five minutes, tops, if you want to call everyone."

"Thanks." Her face breaking into a grin that wouldn't be quite so unreserved were Spencer in the room- none of them are quite there yet, but regularly edible food's been making some inroads- she reaches over for the onboard comms; nothing happens. 

Dwight frowns, stands, pokes at it for a minute, then heads out into the corridor to shout up at the bridge.

"Comms working up there?"

Half a minute later, after some back and forth between him and Laura, Daryl's replying. "It's fucked, I'm on it."

Dwight grins, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well don't hurt yourself or anything."

"Go fuck yourself." 

He's been noticing it in fits and starts all week, but it's becoming quite apparent that the two of them have sorted out their issues. Right now, he's noticing the pleased arch Sasha's got to her eyebrow when their eyes meet. It's not an admission that she'd spoken to either of them, but Paul wouldn't bet against it. Only it's sending a weird pang of, well. Not _guilt_ , exactly, but not far off. The sense that he should probably be holding up his own end of the bargain.

"That'll sound a lot more impressive over functioning _comms_ ," Dwight's shooting back, before swinging his head towards the footsteps coming up the corridor. He straightens up quickly, and his voice, when he speaks again, is level and to the point. "Comms are down."

If Dwight can joke around with Daryl, the least Paul can do is try _talking_ to him. 

It's not that he's been avoiding him. More like, in the interest of letting him handle his own shit, he's just been allowing him as wide a berth as he's needed. 

"So I heard," Connor says, drily, nodding back at Mitch, who's edging past him and heading up for the bridge. "Paul, you want to start a ticket? Low priority, we've got lungs in the meantime, but attach a full systems check." 

He's already got the tablet open; there are a few updated flags, but he ignores them as he opens a new job. "All right. Dwight, I'm putting the initial diagnostics sweep in your queue for tomorrow. Tonight if you feel like it."

Dwight picks up the empty coffee carafe on his way towards the kitchen. "Long as that moron hasn't already ripped the whole dashboard apart, no problem." His tone, amiable and relaxed, nevertheless spikes through Paul like a shot. 

It's jealousy, he realizes. And it's embarrassing. A week ago he and Daryl had been at each other's throats, and now they're getting along just fine. 

Maybe it's just a Techniki thing. 

Maybe Paul's just been a coward.

Shoving the unwelcome thought from his mind, he assigns Dwight the ticket, enters Daryl's name in the secondary slot, then taps _save_ , which bounces him out to the job queue screen. Spencer and Dwight are bringing the food out to the table, so he puts his tablet to sleep and moves to set it aside. 

Only to wake it back up immediately, to confirm what he thinks he's just seen. 

Mitch is watching him, when he tears his eyes away from the screen, and gives him a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. Which ordinarily would be amusing, given the fact that the job queue itself isn't exactly a state secret. But it's dinner time, and nobody's looking at their tablets right now, and-

-Yeah. 

With something like this, Connor's probably going to want to make an announcement. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 06/10/2194, 20:18_

Dinner's weird. 

Ain't nothin' wrong with the food; it's actually been decent enough since Spencer took over the kitchen, not that he's about to admit it. But Spencer, Connor and Laura are running most of the conversation tonight, which is odd. Usually it's Rovia and Sasha running their mouths the whole damn time. 

Come to think of it, Mitch had been weirdly quiet too, when he'd taken over up on the bridge. 

Eventually, Sasha starts gathering up the plates- she's on dishwashing detail this week- when Connor coughs, tells her to sit tight, and stands up himself. 

Now _everyone_ is quiet, shooting confused looks around, except for Rovia, who's _trying_ to look like he's got no idea what's going on. 

Which is unlikely as hell, and typical Admin. Walking around, knowing shit, pretending that everything's fine. That if there's a problem, it's not _his_ to deal with. Like he's got the luxury of opting in. Or like he knows better than to trust people.

Daryl's weighing the pros and cons of calling him out on it when he hears the grinding sound of a key in a cabinet lock; there's the sound of rummaging, and then Connor's coming back through with a bottle in his hand and a grin on his face.

God, he hopes this isn't going to be a thing. It's probably someone's birthday, or some shit. There better not be any fuckin' singing. 

"So. We've got a bit of a supply, and I figured that this is enough reason to break into it. Now I know you've all heard about the stash Paul found, but we're tonight going with the vodka I brought because Mitch- and I quote- _hates this shit_."

There's a lot of laughter- and some coughing- as everyone does as instructed. 

"What's the occasion?" Sasha's still grinning- God, there'd _better_ not be singing. 

Rovia's grinning too, but he's watching the doorway like he's thinking about heading for it. Like he's _that_ worried. And Connor, too, seems to sober as he pours shots of vodka into everyone's cups, and then retakes his seat at the head of the table.

"Two reasons. First, today marks the half-centennial. I know it's not something we've been talking about, but it's why we're here. I'm not one for speeches, but I'd like to propose a toast. So." He raises his own cup, prompting everyone else to do the same. "To fifty years, and five hundred more. Good luck to us all."

There's mixed laughter- mostly from Dwight- as their metal cups clink together; Laura's hits his own with enough force to splash some of the contents over his fingers. He downs his shot, then wipes his hands on his coveralls, but Connor's already got his hands back on the bottle, unscrewing the cap. 

The laughter's died out before he's even started pouring again. The silence stretches. They wait. Long as everyone's got their eyes on Connor, they're not lookin' at each other. Which is probably why Connor's looking at each one of them in turn. 

He thinks it's his imagination that has him staring him down longer than the rest. But finally, Connor continues.

"My mother used to say that sometimes you have to drink your way through a problem. And I'm not saying that this _is_ one, but I figure it can't hurt. Because, as of this afternoon, we are technologically prepared to bring Carl out of stasis and attempt the surgery." He sips his vodka and pulls a face, then casts a glance around the table; it's hard to tell if he's read anything useful off their faces, yet. "I want to hear everyone's thoughts before I make a final decision regarding when, how, and _if_ we go about it."

In the answering silence, Daryl keeps his eyes trained on the table, until curiosity gets the better of him and he cuts a glance in Sasha's direction. She looks like she's about to start crying, but also like she's irritated with herself about it; composing herself quickly, she smiles at him and raises her glass at him. He does the same, and they drink. 

The others, he realizes, are mostly glancing between the two of them; nobody else is talking and it's starting to feel like they're all waiting on him to start. Sasha included. 

"I'm for it," he says. 

It lands flat on the table, with nothing to buffer it. But after a moment, Sasha nods, looking around the table, like she's waiting for anyone to argue, or to react at all. "I think most of us are?" 

It's kind of fucked, havin' it out like this, everyone weighin' in, 'cause there's no way in hell this really matters to any of them. Far as they're all concerned, Carl's no different than Spencer, and ain't supposed to be here in the first place. 

Nobody's shaking their heads, though. 

"We have enough food, and enough space," Connor points out. "And life support systems can handle a few more people."

Dwight looks like he'd _really_ rather not open his mouth, but it's not stopping him. "So what are the concerns? What are we looking at?"

"According to the scans, and so far as we can tell, there was some damage to the socket as well, but nothing, ah, deeper." Connor sets his cup down on the table, pushes it back and forth between his finger and thumb. Daryl nearly misses the apologetic half smile he gives him, and thinks maybe it would've been better if he hadn't seen it. "It's the eye itself that is at issue. There's a lot of blood pooled, though, and with him in stasis, we're unable to see more. Best case scenario, we'll be able to stitch everything back together. More than likely, removing the eye will be the more realistic option." 

"Can we trust the scans?" Sasha asks. "That machine's as old as I am."

"It's in proper working condition, and the surgical bot is calibrated."

Laura looks guiltily from Sasha to him and back again. "If something goes _wrong_ , though?"

"We get him back in stasis immediately, and hope like hell we can get help on Earth." 

Connor's voice is flat, but certain enough that Daryl's relieved. But he downs half of his vodka in one go as everyone starts talking all at once. It doesn't drown anyone out; the words are all starting to wash over him. 

Helping out in the kitchen. Is he going to go through flight training? Can he help out in the cargo bay? Maybe cleaning? Laura's worried about school, and Spencer's wondering if they can trust him around the equipment. 

It's hard to track, and ain't worth the effort. It's just stupid, petty shit that doesn't matter- not really, not when it comes _down_ to it- from all directions

"Carl's got family," he says, maybe not as loudly as he should've. But the rest of the table goes silent. "Would be good to be able to tell them something definite when we check in." 

"Might be easier on him, though, just to wait," Dwight's gritting his teeth, scratching at the patchy stubble on his chin, and shrugs at him. "It's a long trip. Sleeping through it isn't the worst option."

"Could be a time someone else needs the stasis chamber," Laura points out. 

"Earth has actual hospitals." Spencer says. Around him, everyone's starting to argue. "With actual _surgeons_."

"Sure, if we can _find_ one."

"It's a little fucked up, keeping him on a shelf down there. He probably doesn't even know that he's not at home, right now."

"Probably isn't knowing much of anything," Connor muses. "Stasis is weird like that."

"Okay, but even if everything goes _well_ , what do we do with him when he's out?"

"Nothing. Or. Maybe just...not as much. He's a teenager." Rovia frowns, eyes darting around the table. "But we can have him chip in where he can, to whatever extent that he can." 

"He's young, but he's gotten his hands dirty," Sasha's saying. "He's capable. Right, Daryl?"

Most of the conversation had died out when Rovia'd chipped in, he realizes. And now everyone's back to staring at him like anything he says is gonna count for shit.

"Yeah." His throat is dry. Better still, he figures, if he could muster some sort of argument that would get everyone to chill out and just fucking give it a _shot_. 

"I hate to be the one to bring it up," Rovia says, resting his arms on the table. "And I'm not trying to be all doom and gloom, but say we do this. The surgery works, he's alive, but there are complications. Or even just the whole recovery thing. Are we set up to handle that?"

"I'll deal with it," Daryl says, before he's even thought the words. Kid's practically family, and better than most. The fact that he might have to actually _explain_ it to these people is starting to piss him off. 

"I'll help," Sasha adds, right on his heels. "We'll figure it out."

Though not immediately, apparently, given all the blank stares bein' leveled at the table. 

Rovia throws back the rest of his drink and grimaces. "Okay. So if we do nothing, we have to live with that. If we try and we fail, we have to live with that. If we try and we succeed, well, we will have to deal with a teenager on board, but it seems _far_ preferable than the other two options. Right?"

Everyone's nodding at this, and Connor, after a moment, sits up.

"All right then. We'll give it a shot. All that needs to be decided is _when_. Barring any changes, we are as prepared as we are going to be. That could change at any time, of course, but it will be no more true next month than it is right now."

"Who's going to run it?"

"Mitch," Connor says. "I'll back him up."

"I should be there," Daryl says, eyes on the table, and there it is again. That creeping feeling of everyone staring at him. 

"You know your way around the equipment?"

He bites his tongue and looks up from Dwight to Connor. "You know your way around fixing it if something breaks?"

"Fair point," Connor eventually concedes. It's not the most vehement statement Daryl's ever seen. 

"Hold on," Sasha says, looking worried. "Daryl, are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"But-"

" _What?_ "

"I'm just saying. You're closer to him than anyone here. We know that, all right? But there's a reason doctors don't treat their own families. Sometimes they're too close."

"And there's a reason pilots don't do _surgery_ ," Daryl bites back. He doesn't need her tryin' to placate shit, he just needs it _handled_. 

Sasha looks away; across the table, Rovia and Connor seem to be having some complicated conversation made up of frowns, shrugs and scowls. 

"How about this," Rovia says, only he's looking at Connor, voice just a notch quieter than it has been. "He's not inside the room, but he's within shouting distance if you need him."

"I get the feeing he's not going to be far off even if it's not an order." 

"Then _fine_ ," Daryl grinds out, hoping like hell everyone will start thinkin' about shutting the hell up sometime soon. "Let's just get _on_ with it, then."

"All right." Connor raises his eyebrows, but nods. "Anyone against it to the point where they feel the need to argue their point further?" 

A few shaking heads, and everyone watching everyone else. Other than that, there's no response. 

"All right, it's settled." Connor's tone is final, if not exactly heartening. "We'll line it up for tomorrow afternoon."


	5. Chapter 5

_Wednesday, 06/11/2194, 09:12_

At 20 by 30 feet, the cargo bay is by far the largest open area inside the ship, and now that most of the supplies have been sorted out, it's starting to feel like it. The gym equipment's been set up for maybe an hour, and already seeing some use; apparently now that it doesn't involve crawling around running cables, or moving crates around, apparently everyone's all about the exercise. 

He and Dwight still need to sort out the mess of tools over by the workbench, but as far as the big projects go, though, the hydroponics rack is the last of them. 

"No, that's the side support," Laura says, glancing up from the tablet and leaning over the bars of the newly-installed elliptical machine to point at the mess of rods and beams at his feet. " _That_ one goes on top for the lights."

It still takes him a moment to find the hooks on the end, and another to slide them into place, locking the frame into place. After that, though, it's smooth sailing. The lights and the water systems mount easily, the power line clips in where it's supposed to, and after a few rough tugs on the frame to test its stability, he's ready to hand the whole thing off to Spencer. 

He ain't exactly Maggie or Beth, but he's more on top of the food scene than anyone else is, and his guess, Daryl supposes, is as good as anyone's.

"Keeping busy, huh? Looks good." 

He turns at Sasha's voice; he hadn't heard her come down, or that Laura'd disappeared back upstairs. "Nice to actually have some light down here."

"Already got lights."

"Yeah, but it's dead light, you know? Setup like that, full spectrum or whatever. Makes you think that things could actually _live_." She sits down on the weight bench, surveying the room. "You get any sleep at all?"

He rolls his eyes. "You?" 

"Not enough."

"You put any thought into what you're gonna tell him when he wakes up?"

"Hadn't really thought about it." Which, given the myriad of different bad scenarios he'd had running through his head, probably shouldn't come as a surprise. 

A few screwdrivers topple out onto the workbench as he starts putting everything away; she raises her voice to be heard over the racket. "You're his _family_ , Daryl. Or might as well be. You know he's going to be traumatized, coming up out of it."

"Nice words ain't gonna change that."

"Seriously?" 

_Shit._

"Daryl, you know the only reason the crew agreed to go ahead and jump on this was on account of what you said, right?. And we can't have everyone all walking around on eggshells around him. That'll only make things worse."

" _That's_ what you're worried about? You don't even know what-"

She raises her hand, forestalling any interruption. " _Some_ of us are preparing for the eventuality that he _will_ , and when he _does_ , we need to be ready for it."

He glares at the elliptical, because otherwise he'd be glaring at her. 

"All right, fine. No worries. I'll tell him what's going on, keep him from freaking everyone out."

"Daryl..."

"I _know_ , all right?" Turning back to the workbench, he pretends not to hear her, because yeah, he gets it. _Someone's_ gonna have to take care of it, and as unpleasant as it is, Sasha's got a point. It just ain't one he wants to hear yet. 

He's going to have to tell Carl why he's waking up on a stolen ship headed for Earth on nothing but a vague hope that it'll do any good at all. He's going to have to explain what they're doing, and why _Dwight_ \- one of Negan's top lieutenants- is right here with them. He's going to have to admit that they've got no idea if Rick or Michonne or Judith are safe, or if Negan's gotten his hands on them already. 

He's going to have to look him in the eye and tell him _I don't know_ , because he's been working his ass off tryin' to avoid even _thinking_ about all that for the past few weeks. 

Sasha's gathering herself up, and pausing in the doorway. Judging by her monotone, the odds are good that this conversation's not actually finished. 

"The guys will be down after shift change. I'm gonna switch shifts with Paul. Give you some space to clear your head, do whatever you got to do."

"Yeah, Fine." He checks to make sure that everything's secured, and takes his time doing it. 

By the time he's finished, she's long gone.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 06/11/2194, 12:47_

Daryl's been loitering here in the doorway for the better part of an hour, watching them prep for surgery, waiting for one of them to turn around and tell him that they need to fix a gear somewhere, or troubleshoot the stasis interface box. There'd been nothing, so far, but there's a perverse twitch at the back of his head that's almost hoping for the opposite. Now, before they've gotten started. A minor glitch, triggering a check to prevent worse from happening later. Maybe a mechanical repair, something quick and concrete. Something small, just enough to get him in the room. 

But the robotic surgical arms come out from the walls easily enough. They have no trouble connecting the computer, no problems with the stasis chamber itself. 

"Sedative load is at 100 percent," Connor says. 

He wishes someone'd thought to pack a few SciMed uniforms amongst all the Techniki surplus. It's stupid and he knows it. A change of clothes ain't gonna turn anyone into an expert. But those coveralls are the same one he's got on. Same ones he wears when he's getting covered in grease or rerouting drainage lines. They're for fixing _things_ , not _people_.

"Deactivating stasis now," Mitch replies. "Two minutes." Reaching for the control panel, Daryl has an unobstructed view of the stabilizers keeping Carl's head, neck and shoulders in place. 

After a moment, the operating head starts to move sideways above the table. It's not until it starts descending over Carl's face that the panic starts twisting in Daryl's gut. Even once it's stopped, it's sitting unsettlingly close to where Carl's face should be. Knowing that it's by design doesn't make it any easier to look at. 

And it ain't even _doing_ anything yet. 

He gets, now, why they hadn't wanted him any closer. Hell, he's starting to agree with it. 

He doesn't want to go any further away, though, and he's pretty sure that the moment they stop ignoring him will be the moment someone comes back to shut the door in his face, so he remains silent and still, as invisible as he can make himself. 

Everything, so far, seems to be going according to plan, 

"All right," Connor's back is to him and he's speaking quietly; Daryl almost misses his words to Mitch. "That's everything?"

Carl's unconscious. _Sedated_. He's not going to wake up in the middle of this. Won't register anything. 

"We're good to go," Mitch replies, raising his eyes to nod at Daryl. He doesn't make it an order, and in return, Daryl backs quietly out of the doorway, letting it close behind him. 

He should've told them _good luck_ or _be careful_ or something. 

Maybe he could shout it through the door. 

Maybe it would just startle them.

It's okay, though. It'll be fine. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 06/11/2194, 13:08_

Paul drags his eyes away from the clock readout by the door and focuses again on his cards. 

He's not particularly good at poker, but neither is Dwight. The bolts they're betting with are almost spread evenly now, and he's pretty sure the only reason they're still even playing is that doing or saying anything else will take more mental effort than either of them can expend. They've barely spoken for what feels like hours. 

It's the way of things today, this distracted breath they're all holding, the things nobody's saying.

He'd been halfway through his shift shadowing Laura up on the bridge when Sasha'd relieved him, all hard eyes and no explanation. There's no doubt in his mind that there _is_ one, and going by the occasional snatches of conversation floating down to the common room, he's willing to bet that Daryl's the cause. 

In the kitchen, no more than six feet away at most, Spencer's started rearranging the bins again; cups and silverware and bins of dehydrated foodstuffs are being shuffled from one cabinet to the next, apparently with no end in sight.

It's probably a sign that they need to give him something more to do. It's not motivation enough, though, for Paul to go through the headache of talking with Connor and _arranging_ anything, just yet. Filing the thought away for later- along with a note to check on the progress with the hydroponics setup- he shuffles the deck. By the time the's got the cards dealt, he's already forgotten what time it is. And his cards, when he tries to read them, are just like the clock face; they might as well be blank, for all the information he's taking in. 

"You think it's going all right?" 

"Would've heard if it wasn't." He doesn't miss the way Dwight's worried gaze sweeps up towards the bridge, but at least he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he fans out his cards in a slick one-handed move that makes him look like a magician, at least up until he shrugs. "Not gonna be offended if you want to bail on this to go down and check, though."

"I'm good." 

_13:09_ , the clock says, and he repeats it in his head, trying to lock it down. 

"You sure about that?"

"Sorry." He blinks back to Dwight, who's waiting with raised eyebrows. "Just distracted."

"I know, you just dealt three extra cards. Again." 

By the time Paul's confirmed the count in his own hand, Dwight's set his own down, his voice practically a whisper as he gestures up towards the bridge. "Look. Everyone's worried, right? And everyone who would normally be checking in is, uh, busy right now. _I_ go down there, him being in whatever mood he's in, it probably ain't make shit worse, so..."

"So it's me or nobody, huh?"

"Or you can just keep mooning at the door, I guess. Up to you."

He rolls his eyes, but he's considering it. "I was looking at the clock."

"Uh-huh."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 06/11/2194, 13:30_

They've been in there for hours; somewhere along the line, Rovia'd shown up looking wary and mumbling out some bullshit about Dwight being crap at poker, and had made himself at home next to the sealsuit storage cabinet.

He'd had to stop pacing, when he'd shown up. And it's easier to avoid him if they're both leaning against the same wall with their eyes on the medbay door. If he's not looking at him, maybe Rovia'll get the hint that he doesn't need to be here, despite whatever Sasha'd probably told him. 

The engines from down below are drowning out anything going on inside, but the comms link chime rings out clearly enough from the door's control panel. 

"How's it going down there?" Sasha asks, only sounding slightly awkward, which means she's probably about as interested in rehashing their last conversation as he is.

 _Just peachy_. He reaches over to press for talkback before Rovia takes it upon himself to respond. "They're still at it. Ain't heard nothing yet."

"No news is good news, but let me know."

"Yeah." 

Settling back against the wall again, he glances over at Rovia, who's twitching into some sort of half grin. "Sorry all about this, by the way."

"About what?" 

The grin falters, and Rovia shrugs. "Making you wait out here. Or. My part in it, at least." He looks like he's about to say more- probably something about Sasha, about bein' here when she ain't- but cuts himself off. Instead, he asks, "So, how're you holding up?"

He can't help the flash of irritation- it's a stupid question- but he swallows the thought down. "Fine."

Letting out a sigh, Rovia rocks his head back against the wall. Just when Daryl's starting to settle in to the _waiting_ again, he says, "I hate this shit. Waiting. Hate doctors, too."

"Yeah, well. Bright side: we don't actually _have_ any of those on board, so no worries, right?"

"There is that." 

Joking about it, though, just drives his awareness of the truth of it into Daryl's head, and a sideways glance is enough to confirm that he's not the only one thinking about it. It takes him longer than it probably should to start digging his way out of the hole. "So wait. Even Dr. Cloyd?" 

"Huh?"

"Denise. Dr. Cloyd."

"Oh." Rovia blinks at him, like he's startled or something. "No, she was... she's cool." He turns towards him, one eye scrunched up tight. "Knew her from school, mostly. But she helped me with this." He raises his hand; it's pretty much healed. 

Maybe his finger's always looked like that. And maybe Daryl should just leave any and all attempts at conversation to other people. "Uh. Really am sorry-"

"It's all right," Rovia says, like he doesn't really want to go into it, but then he wriggles his fingers and drops his hand. But he's stepping away from the wall and angling himself in front of him. "Seriously."

He knows when he's being given an out, and honestly, he's good with letting the matter drop. 

Only, after a minute or so, he realizes that ain't the same as the matter bein' _settled_.

"Yeah, well. Woulda had my head bashed in if you hadn't jumped in when you did, so. It was shitty."

Rovia straightens up, but his shoulders slump as he crosses his arms. For a minute, he's just glaring off into space, like he's assessing exactly how much he's going to say. 

When he does speak, he sounds resigned. 

"You're not the only one who fucked things up, all right? There's enough shitty to go around." Some of the intensity drops out of his eyes, leaving him tired looking. "So maybe we just go with this: you didn't want to break my hand any more than I wanted to get people killed. Deal?"

There's a story there, but Daryl ain't sure he wants to hear it any more than Rovia looks like he wants to tell it. 

"Yeah," he says, only there's probably something more he should be saying; something more or _better_ or smarter. 'Cause maybe Rovia'd fucked up and maybe he hadn't, but he's standing here now, lookin' like shit ain't really been fixed. 

Like he's giving him a pass that he hasn't really earned, just to keep the peace. 

Before he's got any more time to think on it, though, the medbay door's sliding open and Connor's stepping out. 

Past his shoulder, Daryl can see Mitch moving the surgical bot arms back towards their housing in the wall. Moving two steps to the side would give him a better view of the stasis chamber, but Daryl finds himself frozen to the spot. 

Connor seems surprised to see them loitering, and asks, "Everything all right?"

Rovia's the first to recover, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands into his pockets. With a glance in Daryl's direction he raises his eyebrows. "That kind of depends on what you say next, I'm thinking."

"I hear you." Connor cuts a quick, bloody grin, then looks at Daryl, and sobers. "We couldn't save the eye, but the removal was clean enough. We're going to keep him in sedated for a few days to allow him to heal up from that, as well as the secondary injuries, but he should be okay, otherwise." He gestures back into the room. "Mitch will be finished getting everything sorted soon. Once he's done, you can go in and see for yourself, if you want."

Daryl can't do anything more than nod. His mind's almost a complete blank; he can just make out Rovia thanking Connor, who's retreating back into the medbay.

This time, when the door slides closed, he's not honestly expecting it. 

He's not expecting the tap on his arm, either. Or to find Rovia looking at him questioningly, half-reaching for the communicator panel. "Think Sasha's still up there?"

Daryl nods, and from there, rediscovers the possibility of movement. He takes a step forward, presses the button, and hails the bridge.

"Daryl?"

"Hey Sasha," he says, with a confidence that doesn't feel quite real. It probably won't, he figures, until Carl's actually awake, until Daryl can see for himself that he's _okay_. 

Maybe he's starting to get past it, though, because when Rovia edges past him in a crouch to peer into the medbay, Daryl catches himself breaking into a grin. 

Sasha, on the other hand, sounds like she's frowning. " _Well?_ "

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. They just finished up." He rubs at the side of his neck, 'cause apparently, sometimes relief feels like choking. "Looks like Carl's gonna be all right." 

\--- 

_Saturday, 06/14/2194, 17:35_

His dreams have changed, lately. Merle's not breathing his last on the other side of the Colony's membrane, just inches past his reach. 

Instead, he's caught out in the hangar as the roof grinds open above the ship. He's scrabbling to catch hold of any chink in the exterior as debris, spent blasters, and other Savior's bodies start rushing around him. The world's shaking and Daryl's up against the wall, inside and almost safe, closing his eyes against it all as the ship heaves. 

They're off, they're gone, the planet- the people, _all_ of them- left dead behind them. 

And then it's just quiet. 

So it takes him a moment to realize that he's woken up; mostly registering as a desire to smoke. Being stuck on a ship- even one as small and as uninhabited by semi-reformed criminals as it is- seems to drag the thought to the forefront of his brain. 

Shaking loose his fisted hands, he shoves the thought back where it belongs. Maybe it's the fact that the medbay smells clean, and that nobody's trading their dwindling supplies of cigarettes down in the commons. Or maybe it's just that it's been a few years now, but it's easier than it used to be. Doesn't last more than a minute or so. 

The thin window of the medbay is revealing the same star-streaked nothing it always does. Merle ain't outside, but then, that death hadn't been his, it had been Simon's. 

Daryl still doesn't know whether it was the depressurization, or the engine blast or what, that had actually killed him. Keeps meaning to ask, but doesn't particularly want to be the one to bring it up. 

There's another chime- he'd just heard it, he realizes; its probably what had woken him up- and Sasha's announcing the ten minute warning for shift change, so he clambers up out of his chair and stretches. His eyes follow their habitual path to Carl, and then to the readouts. The sedative load in his system has already dropped another two percentage points in the however-long-it's-been since Daryl'd passed out. It's low enough now that Carl will probably be coming out of it tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.

"How's he doing?"

Daryl's still got too many cobwebs in his brain to startle easily, so he blinks back at Sasha, who's armed with the book she's been attempting to work through the last few days. From the looks of it, she's probably passing out in the chair as often as he is.

"No alerts, twenty percent." This earns him a grin; hers have been coming more easily, the last few days. "Who's up there now?"

"Mitch. And Paul. Looks like he's gonna get cleared for solo today.

"No shit?"

"Ducked my head up there, he seems to _finally_ be comfortable enough on the controls." 

It's weird, being reminded that outside of this room, life is still happening, but he's not so far gone that his next thought isn't _finally_. Nobody'd been talking about anything else for the past few days, what with the lack of news coming from the medbay. "So's this mean Connor's gonna switch us to four shift rotations 'stead of three?" 

"Sooner rather than later, unless he wants the world's most sleep-deprived mutiny on his hands." She tosses her book on the just-vacated seat, and looks at Carl's readouts. "Soon as Dwight's finished his systems tests, we'll be soloing between proximity alerts." She's grinning when she turns back. "Enough time to actually start focusing on figuring out what we're going to do when we land. Maybe even some time to _relax_ , can you believe it?"

He's got his doubts. "Relaxation's just Connor's word for mandatory two-hour workouts."

"SOP for anyone coming out of stasis, and for anyone not wanting to wind up _needing_ PT once we land." Satisfied, apparently, that Carl's no worse off than he'd been at the end of her last shift, Sasha comes back and eases into the chair. "'That reminds me, the weight machine is acting up and I couldn't figure out what was going on with it. You mind taking a look? After dinner, or tomorrow or something?"

"I'm on it." 

"Should try out the elliptical, while you're down there. It's nicer than the ones at the school gym."

"So's a kick in the teeth," he stops in the doorway, one foot in the corridor, "but you don't hear people getting all excited about it."

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/15/2194, 04:46_

Halfway through Paul's leg presses, Spencer comes into the cargo bay, looking tired, somehow half-finished. He needs a shave at the very least, but then, Paul himself had abandoned the practice altogether.

"You need the weights?" He's too tired to bury his hopeful tone. Not being able to sleep will make a person do stupid things, such as following Mitch's advice and coming down here to try wearing himself out on this overcomplicated piece of garbage. "I'm almost done here." 

"It's fine, I'm just checking the plants. You up late, or up early?"

"I don't even know any more. Just trying to knock myself out."

"Well, I'll leave you to it." Spencer smirks as he passes by his way to his adopted hydroponics. "Can't have you falling asleep at the wheel." 

Some of the plants are already starting to sprout, though Paul figures it'll be another week or two before he'd be able to differentiate the arugula from the kale; the tomatoes aren't going to be ready to go for another two months at least, but Mitch, Laura and Connor had been adamant, and they're the experts. 

Paul refocuses on his leg presses, toying with the idea of skipping the upper body work that the cartoon on the machine's screen is insisting he do next, and just moving over to the elliptical. The damage is already done, though. He's probably going to be trying to murder that cartoon in his sleep, whenever it finally comes.

"Actually," Spencer says, prodding at shoots and shifting containers around, as if another few millimeters to the right or the left is going to make a huge difference in harvest. "While I've got you here, I wanted to run something by you."

He'd been thinking that Spencer's probably just too tired to have pulled all his armor on, but him wanting something's a more likely motivator for the agreeable mien. But he'll take it. This, he knows how to deal with. "Shoot."

"Last night, during Connor's toast. You remember Laura talking about how we should find excuses to break out the whiskey more often?"

Mostly, he remembers the way Spencer'd been looking at her, though he's not about to say so. Far too much of their ability to get along is wrapped up in taking every avoidance possible, and they both know it. "Yeah?"

"If we were going through it more quickly, I wouldn't be suggesting this, but the fact of the matter is, food storage in the kitchenette is already at a premium." He's not wrong. Half of Spencer's time seems to be spent shifting things in and out of ridiculously small cubbies. Right now, with him leaning against the hydroponics frame, his hands are the stillest Paul's seen them in days. "And with Carl coming out of stasis, and- this is a bit further out- the garden kicking into gear, I'm kind of wondering if we could reclaim some space for extra food supplies."

He finishes his set and sits up, rolling his eyes at the stupid dancing _Good Job!_ banner waving across the screen as he drags sweaty hair back out of his face. "You want to move it back down into storage?"

"I was kind of thinking, nobody's been showing any undue interest in the supply. Everyone on board is trustworthy enough. I don't see any real reason why we couldn't just give everyone a bottle to keep in their quarters or something." When Paul doesn't reply, he presses on. "I mean, other than the fact that we do have a few people on board who're the type to be tearing it up down on the strip every payday, which maybe-." 

"To be fair, not everyone had the friends in Procurement to help them stock the shelves in their quarters."

It's with some minor, petty satisfaction that he notices Spencer's pause. 

"True."

Spencer is still trying not to be an ass, Paul upbraids himself, resolving to attempt the same. So he gives it some thought. There's not much to celebrate around here. It would definitely boost morale. And with the shortened shifts Connor's decreed, everyone is going to have some more free time, which could, in and of itself, prove to be a double edged sword. Because on the one hand, a well-rested crew is a good thing, but they're not back home. There's no strip, no friends, no escape from each other, and nothing but a box full of old books and movies to fill the time. 

So far, they've all been running their asses off just to get the RV functioning. Connor, especially, has been concerned about what's going to happen with the non-dockside crew, once everyone starts having time to stop and _think_. 

The risks of pouring alcohol all over the situation is something to be considered, but it's not the worst idea he's ever heard. Even if Spencer's real motivation has more to do with Laura, as Paul suspects, than anything else. Still, it could come back to bite them in the ass, though he's too tired to try puzzling out the specifics right now. So he falls back on his strengths and delegates. 

"Connor would have to give the go-ahead on that one."

Spencer nods. "Of course. I just thought... it would go over a bit better if you were the one to float the idea."

"He'd listen to you, too."

He's swiveling around, resetting the machine to work on his arms, so he mostly misses Spencer's bitter expression. "Sure, but you and I both know that I'm just the stowaway kitchen help."

"For whatever that's worth on a ship full of mutineers." He sighs, noticing Spencer's tablet in the pile by the elliptical. "Here. Give me your tablet. While I'm still thinking of it."

Pressing his thumb into the ID sensor, he waits for it latch onto the comms system, then brings up the messaging system. In the description field, he types out _reclaim kitchen storage to increase food capacity commensurate with addition of teenager on board: redistribute some of alcohol stock to adult crew, or store in cargo_. Flagging it as _Pending Captain Determination_ as an afterthought, he uploads it to Connor's queue. Almost immediately, the stupid weight machine screen starts flashing about his minute of inactivity, and he shoves the tablet back at Spencer. 

"Thanks." Spencer's eyebrows are halfway up his forehead, like trying not to laugh. 

"Sure thing," Paul swivels to the side to reset the machine, feeling absurdly chastised by a stupid piece of technology. But apparently, it's done its job, because he's switching it over for the upper body workout as instructed.

Reseating himself, he reaches up for the pull bar, then realizes that it's been set _far_ to high for the likes of him. Dialing it down, the next few pulls come more easy, but the third rep is met with too much resistance, immediately followed by a complete and utter _lack_ of it, which sends the bar nearly careening into his head before jerking, too fast, to a halt. 

The machine, of course, registers this as an error on his part, and starts flashing the "user error" message once again. 

For a moment, he's just still, trying to figure out how to let go of the bar without something somewhere crashing furiously, and maybe how to destroy this machine beyond any and all recognizability. Still, he's careful, raising the bar back into position. 

The machine is picking up the slack, right up until it's _not_ , and the bar retracts suddenly, too quickly for him to let go evenly, much less stop himself from yelping his right arm is twisted painfully above his head. 

And Spencer, of course, isn't so far away yet that he doesn't hear it. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/15/2194, 05:02_

Connor had offered to take the overnight watch down here, but with the increasingly likely odds that Carl could wake up at any time, it hadn't seemed right to take him up on it. So it's a little disappointing when the sound that wakes him isn't coming from the open stasis chamber, but from the cargo bay instead. 

Spencer's passing by outside, heading for the ladder and smirking down at his tablet, but he notices Daryl getting up and stops in the doorway, arching an eyebrow at him. "Weight machine's busted. Thought you were gonna look into that?"

"In the morning, yeah."

"Well, it's morning. Probably want to do something about that before someone _really_ gets hurt." The sound of metal thudding against metal out in the cargo bay seems to amuse him, but he's too busy fucking around with his tablet to notice Daryl trying to get past; apparently he cant move six inches out of the way without snorting snobbishly over it. 

Smirking at him from where he's sitting on the weight bench, Rovia's got his coverall and thermal sleeves tied around his waist, and the tank top he's got on looks thin with sweat. The thing he should probably be noticing, though, is that he's cradling his- 

_Ah, shit_.

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Just. Something gave out, caught me off guard." Standing up, Rovia shakes out his hands, and when he flexes his fingers, his left seems slow to move. "It's fine."

"Shit, sorry about that." There are reusable cold packs in the medbay, but asking Rovia if he wants one feels pointless, so he just backtracks out of the cargo bay to get one. Grabbing one from the refrigerated cabinet, he's halfway to the door before remembering that there are wraps for them in the drawer, so he backtracks again. Carl's still sleeping; checking's just habit, now. 

By the time he's back in cargo, Rovia's already got his arms through his sleeves, though he abandons buttoning his coveralls up in favor of accepting the wrapped cold pack. "It's not that bad, you didn't have to-" Rovia cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well. Meant to get to it this morning-"

"Right, because, I'm sure this has nothing to do with your ongoing war against my pinky." Waiting for Daryl's attention- and he _has_ it- he laughs drily, holding up his right hand and wriggling his fingers. "Joke's on you, though, I actually have _two_ of them." 

"Yeah, for now." Daryl mutters irritably, looking down at the machine. He's going to need to bring up the schematics to see what's wrong with it, and going through the whole thing is gonna be a pain in the ass. "Next time, just let your buddy Spencer go first."

There's a disbelieving snort behind him. "Pretty sure buddies don't use each other as lab rats."

And when someone gets hurt, they don't do _whatever_ the fuck Spencer had just been doing, neither. "Exactly."

"You really don't like him, do you?" Rovia's grin is conspiratorial, wide enough that Daryl can't keep looking at it for very long. . 

"Do you?"

Rovia grimaces. "Well, it's a-"

- _small ship_ , is probably what he'd be saying next, if not for the clattering noise back in the lower corridor. But he freezes, eyes wide as he follows the sound, and that's when Daryl catches on. Not the corridor. The medbay. And it's followed by a quiet voice, nervous enough that Daryl barely recognizes it.

But it's Carl. 

He's awake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Whew! Thanks for bearing with me- I've been moving and life's been hectic the past few weeks.)

_Sunday, 06/15/2194, 05:10_

Paul'd followed Daryl without thinking, but hovering in the doorway, peering into the still-darkened medbay, he's not sure he shouldn't've waited a bit longer. 

The stasis bed's pulled out from the wall; for all Paul knows, it's been like that all week. It's not so much that it's been off-limits, or that Daryl and Sasha have deliberately turned the medbay into a Technicki micro-enclave. But watching over Carl had been deemed a family affair, and there's been no need for interlopers. 

Interrupting now doesn't seem any easier than it had before Carl'd been sitting up. He's disoriented, uncoordinated, but he's not thrashing any more; Paul's pretty sure the grip he's got on Daryl's sleeve had originated as a punch, but their heads are bent low, foreheads nearly touching.

"Carl. Carl, you're okay, all right? You're okay. Go easy."

Daryl's reassuring tone falters only slightly when he twists to look over his shoulder; it's clear that he's not quite expecting to find anyone there. But he recovers quickly, nodding at Paul.

"Hey, can you get Mitch down here?"

Absurdly relieved at being given any sort of direction, Paul steps out into the corridor and gets on comms. From the bridge, Connor reports that Mitch is on his way, and that Sasha won't be far behind, and for a few minutes, afterward, Paul just stares blankly at the sealsuit rack, giving Daryl and Carl a moment of privacy before they're descended upon. 

Eavesdropping may make him a hypocrite, but he can't help it. And he's not hearing all that much, anyhow. Daryl's voice is a steady stream, telling Carl he's going to be okay, asking him if anything hurts. Does he need water, is he hungry. Reminding him not to stand up just yet. 

The only time Paul hears Carl's voice, he's interrupting to ask where everyone is- where his _dad_ is. Daryl's hesitation is as telling as his mumbled response, but it's the half-caught movement in Paul's peripheral that makes him give up the pretense. Daryl's got his hands up in surrender, letting Carl shove himself away to the other side of the bed. 

"Why can't I see?" Dragging his knees up in front of his chest, Carl reaches for his bandages. 

Moving fast, Daryl catches his hands. "Carl, _don't_ -"

Carl swats at him halfheartedly; this time Daryl catches it. "Daryl, Why can't I-"

"Your eye got hurt." 

A moment passes. There are footsteps upstairs, but in here, it's silent as Daryl releases his grip. 

"Is it-" Apparently, Carl's fingers are telling him everything he needs to know; his teeth clench, and under the bandages, he looks terrified.

"Doc needs to take a look-" Daryl reaches out slowly, ready to stop Carl from prodding again, but he's frozen, and so his hand hovers uselessly.

Edging into the room, Paul stays well clear of them until he's grabbed one of the water bottles off the rack by the sink hose. 

There are water bottles in the rack by the sink. Maybe useful, maybe not, but it's just an excuse anyway, because Daryl's staring at the kid like he's a jammed pressure-relief valve, set to explode. 

Unsure how to proceed, he drags his feet more than he needs to, opens a cabinet full of scope attachments just for the noise. It's awkward enough that he's here, he doesn't need to startle anyone on top of everything. 

Tapping Daryl on the shoulder with the bottle, he pretends not to notice him wiping his face on his sleeve before twisting back to reach for it. "It'll just be a minute." 

Daryl nods, takes a breath, offers the water to Carl with a tone that's not believably unworried. "Hey, you want some water?"

Carl's fingers test the edges of his bandage before skirting away again. "What happened?"

"You got hurt," Daryl's shoulders slump, water bottle forgotten, and his tone is starting to slip. "Doc's coming down, 'kay?"

Paul doesn't know what Carl's shaking his head at. Probably everything. 

"I know. Just. Hang tight, all right?" Daryl's eyes are wide when he glances back over his shoulder, but it's doubtful that he's taking anything in. Paul's the only one to notice Mitch appear. 

"Hey Carl," he says, his mouth tightening only slightly as Carl's head snaps up; he's panting now, thin shoulders heaving as he casts about, unseeing. But Mitch continues calmly, his tone light. "I'm Mitch. I know you're all over the place right now, and that's fine. But we need to check you over real quick, if that's all right with you. Daryl's gonna be right here, okay? Just have a few questions, and we'll see about getting those bandages off." 

Paul waits for Carl to nod before stepping back, one eye on Daryl as he leaves, just in case he looks up. 

He doesn't.

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/15/2194, 08:22_

Carl needs rest. Natural, uninterrupted sleep. 

And hopefully he's getting it, because Daryl sure as hell ain't. Lying down ain't no good, it's just making him antsier. Doesn't want to leave his room because he can hear everyone moving around anyway, and they'll just start asking him shit. 

He doesn't want to talk. Doesn't want to hear everyone bending over backwards, coming just short of telling him _I told you so._ He doesn't particularly want to see Mitch's black eye, neither. Might not have given it to him, but he hadn't stopped Carl, neither. He'd just pissed around, gotten in the way. Set the kid to panicking right out of the gate. 

Carl's eye is gone. And he knows that now, no thanks to Daryl. Maybe if he'd let Mitch handle it. Maybe if he'd explained it better instead of-

Carl's family is gone. 

Could be dead, no idea. 

And it was one thing when Carl was asleep, but now the practicalities are setting in: it'll still be WEEKS before they reach the first checkpoint. How the fuck is he supposed to explain that they're on a ship, that they're heading to Earth in a stolen research vessel? That besides _war_ , they've got no idea what they're going to find- let alone what they're going to do- once they get there. 

He shouldn't have pressed. Just let Carl sleep through everything, this whole mission. Sure, Rick- if he's even alive- would want to know he's okay. But he's _Rick_ , and Carl's a _kid_. 

Possibly an orphan. 

Shit. _Judith_. 

God, if Negan or any of the other Saviors had taken notice, there's a very good chance they could all be dead. Or worse. 

Maggie and Glenn, chanting their daily _toe the fucking lines_. Rick and Michonne, first in the yard. Judith being passed around from disinterested Savior to disinterested Savior in the stands, only because the alternative is too much to contemplate. 

And Daryl hadn't thought about Enid at all. 

\---

 _Sunday, 06/15/2194, 10:32_

He hears Dwight's door closing across the hall, but no footsteps are following; he's not sure why he's holding his breath until he hears Sasha calling out.

"Daryl, you awake?"

Long as he doesn't move, she'll move on. So he ain't exactly sure why it is that he's trying not to hit his head on the upper bunk as he gets up and reaches for the door. 

Her skin looks thin under the dim corridor light, and the smile's barely covering her concern. She's handing him a bottle of whiskey. 

He ain't in the mood for toasting, or whatever ploy Sasha's running. "The fuck is this?"

"Courtesy of Spencer, who's clearing out space in the kitchen. Everyone's got their own private stock now." She shrugs. "Might've been an excuse to get me through the door."

"How's that working for you?" 

She smirks back at him, unimpressed. "Guess that depends on you."

Still, it takes him a moment to admit defeat and step aside, waving her to the chair at the desk. Not sure what to do with it, he rolls it between his hands. "Want some?"

"Kinda early for me, but you're not on shift until tonight, so go ahead."

Pulling from the bottle might knock him out, but it don't seem right, doin' it in front of company, so he shuts it up in the cabinet, and sits down on the bed.

"Checked in on Carl," she says- most of their conversations have been starting this way, lately. "He woke up for a bit."

"He say anything?"

"Not really. Doesn't like ricemeal. Dizzy, and his depth perception is off. Think everything else is still sinking in." She sighs. "He said to tell you he's sorry. About earlier, I guess."

"Ain't his fault. I'm the one who freaked him out."

She doesn't ask, but she's looking like she's about to, so he grits his teeth and gets it over with. "First thing he asked for was his dad. Told him he wasn't there. Was trying to figure out how to explain it but he was already freaking out about not bein' able to see. So, me bein' a genius, I basically just told him we'd took out his eye while he slept." 

"It's going to take some time. It'll be better in the long run, though."

 _Yeah, sure._ "How you figure?"

"He's got time to get used to all of this before we land. Can you imagine just waking up on Earth with no preparation?"

"Actually, _yeah_." He shrugs, 'cause he ain't tryin' to stir up shit, here. "Ain't like we've got a road map for any of this."

"We'll get there. No point in worrying about it before we've even reached the first checkpoint."

"That a fact, or are you just deciding that now?"

"Little of both, I guess," she replies, after a moment. "I mean. Part of me is hoping that we're going to relay back, find out that everyone's gotten their shit together and focusing on upping the sustainability." Her eyes drop to the floor; she's shaking her head. "Then I shut my eyes at night hearing the buzz of a dead line in my head. For all we know, there's nothing left to try saving."

He's been wondering the same thing. Hadn't been a good time to ask, mostly 'cause he hadn't really wanted the answer. Still doesn't, to be honest. But she's here, and this is as close to the topic as they've gotten in the weeks since they'd launched. In the end, though, she's the one to broach the subject. 

"We got weapons out to the enclaves. And there, at the end, the Saviors were running defense."

The whiskey, he has to admit, is seeming like a better and better idea. 

Back in the day, Merle and his crew- Sawyer, and Jonas and the rest of those Clinchfield assholes- had done their part for the war effort by ripping off a drugs shipment from the SA assholes who'd set up shop the next county over. They'd had it in their heads to hit them at their own bar, but then Sawyer'd called, telling Merle he'd spotted their bikes at some hotel down in Unadilla. 

Merle'd been keeping watch from the truck stop, and Daryl'd been stationed up the road on I-75, since bein' that close to Dooly prison hadn't been doin' them any favors, but there'd been no need. Merle and Jonas had gotten in and out almost clean, crowing about the hookers they'd met in the lobby. It'd taken the SA assholes almost two days to track them down and get their shit back, afterwards. And less than half an hour, way Merle'd told it, for Jonas and Sawyer to bleed out. 

"Negan could've turned it around, though." Far, _far_ too easily, even without Simon and whoever else had gotten caught out in the hangar. "And if he not, he'd retaliate."

"I know," she says. "But thinking that way doesn't help. Least, I keep telling myself that."

"For all the good it does, huh?" 

"For all the good it does." Glancing at the clock, she says, "Look. Could be, as far as Carl goes with all of this, the best way around all this is to talk him straight through it, you know? It's bad, but we're not gonna do him any favors by lying to him. Puts everyone in a weird spot."

He doesn't want to agree, but he nods. "I'll take care of it." Somehow. At some point, once he's out of the medbay and trapped in here with him. Long as Carl's pissed at him, everyone else will be in the clear. Probably for the best. 

"On the bright side, if there's any better excuse to have a drink or two, this is it." She juts her chin towards the cabinet. "And hey, you actually _can_ , now."

"I start in on that, I'll probably drink the whole damn thing," Daryl scoffs. Maybe he should. "Don't need to be worryin' about him sneaking into the supply."

"About that," Sasha trails off, biting her cheek. 

"About what?"

"The bunk situation. Uh. We were kind of talking it over. If you want, we can fix it so Carl's not in your hair every waking moment." Biting her cheek, she continues. "Dwight's down to move into my quarters if need be." 

Daryl blinks at her, confused.

"Seriously, Daryl? You had no idea?"

"Fuck _had_ , I _still_ dunno what you're on about."

"Me. And Dwight. Kind of a thing."

"Oh."

He's probably supposed to say something here, along the lines of not seeing that coming, but it ain't like he'd been looking. Only she's looking kind of wary, like she's concerned about whatever dumb shit's about to come out of his mouth next. Shrugging to buy some time, he tries to think about what Glenn or someone would say. Or Tara or, fuck it, even Beth. 

Thankfully, she takes pity on him and gets right down to it. "It's just, I know you and him don't have the best history. But he's a good guy, and-"

"I know."

"You sure?"

"I mean. He was OT before he was in with Negan, yeah? Proved that much."

It's Sasha's turn to look confused, but after a minute, she smiles. 

Just warily enough that he's wondering what Dwight's been sayin' to her. 

He's got a pretty good idea. Only that's old _done_ shit, and it's been settled for a while now. 

_Fuckin' hell, people_. 

Before he can start figuring out if it's worth rehashing the whole thing- he's starting to get the idea that she's already heard anyway- Sasha's standing up. 

"Seriously," he says, brain finally catching up to him. "I'm happy for y'all. And yeah, tell him thanks on the whole room front. He gives you any shit, though..." 

He raps out the Saviors warning on the bedframe, and this time, when she laughs, it's relieved. She taps out the all-clear on the side of the cabinet, muting the sound with her palm. 

"Thanks," she says. "I'll keep it in mind."


	7. Chapter 7

_Tuesday, 06/17/2194, 14:04_

It'll still be a while before Carl's brain's caught up with his new lack of depth perception and all the rest, but he's already learning to compensate. Not that he seems to believe it. Progress has been steady, if slow, and the fact that it'll probably be several weeks before Sasha or Daryl will allow him to even try the ladder downstairs without a spotter is probably only just drawing a bright red line under the whole situation.

He'd been bristling under their attention even before getting moved up out of the medbay and into the land of the living, in the quarters that Dwight had vacated with a surprising- if relieving- lack of fanfare.

Really it's only Laura and Spencer who seem drawn to gossiping about every little thing. At least they're canny enough, with all the time the two of _them_ have been spending together lately, not to draw too fine a line underneath it all. Paul's pretty sure that Connor's right, though. Things will go south when they go south, and no tyrannical codes of conduct will keep that eventuality at bay.

He just doesn't get it, though. How people fall into bed and relationships so easily, no worries for complications or endings or any of it, even on a ship this small.

 _Especially_ on a ship this small.

\---

_Wednesday, 06/18/2194, 15:11_

Carl takes it pretty well, all things considered. That they don't know what's become of his family, or Enid, or any of their friends. That they don't know, exactly, what they're going to do when they land on Earth, or if they're going to be able to find any help. That they don't know if Negan's in a cell, or if he's running the whole colony into the ground.

It doesn't hurt that they're in the cargo bay while Carl uses the exercise bike. So far, it's been the first thing he's found on board that he's shown any interest in at all, which is starting to make sense. He can move without having to constantly check his surroundings, or deal with worried adults warning him about hazards in his blind spot.

Daryl's been dithering on the weight machine- talking's easier when there's something else going on- but he's halfassing it and he knows it. Trying to keep an eye out for conversational blind spots, anything that'll send Carl retreating back into his quarters.

Even if the mental gymnastics required to stop himself from answering every single question with _I don't know_ are starting to wear him out, at least Carl's been handling them with relatively good humor.

Carl already knows that the fight had been bad, so Daryl's careful to point out that the Techniki and Ag workers had been armed, and the Saviors outnumbered. And that it was Negan's crew in the hangar when it had vented to space.

Carl's not surprised to hear that the Admin squints had been useless in the fight, but he hadn't thought about it from their end. Even they wouldn't be stupid enough to ally themselves with the Saviors when Rick, Maggie, and the rest of the colony'd been the ones bailing them out. But he doesn't seem to put much stock in, Daryl's assertions that Admin's implementation of measures to makes the colony more self-sufficient, even before everything had gone to hell.

And yeah. Daryl's had his doubts too. The way he figures it, if Carl's got questions on that one, they've got the architect of their entire plan on board; he can hassle _him_.

"What happens if we can't get help?" He's asking now. "If we can't get _back?_ "

"It was always a risk," Daryl admits, dialing up more weight for the pull bar and hoping that the non-answer will suffice. "Better to try than not, though."

"You sound like Rovia."

"Huh?" He'd been aiming for Maggie, or Sasha, maybe. "That good or bad?"

Carl turns his whole head to look at him. Maybe it's the eye patch Sasha'd fixed up for him, but the eye roll comes across more emphatic than it might've otherwise. Or it could be, Daryl's just getting used to it. "Well, seeing as how you actually sound like you know what you're _talking_ about, backing the bravado with bullshit, I'd say good."

"And you sound like your dad," Daryl bites back, before he can think better of it.

Carl snorts. "Thanks," he says, suddenly very interested in the handlebar-mounted readout.

For a minute, Daryl just focuses on his workout and waits to see exactly how this is going to fall out. Carl's pedaling is starting to slow down.

"How long is it before we hit the relay station?"

"About two weeks. We'll know what's going on then, at least."

"Uh... I might know something."

"Yeah?"

The pedaling stops, and Carl's sitting up, wiping his face on his sleeve. His expression's hard to read; staring at him while trying to figure it out is just awkward for both of them, so Daryl fidgets with the weight machine controls for a minute instead.

"I mean, I dunno for sure. But. You were saying, you don't know who's alive and who's dead?"

A pit forms in Daryl's stomach, and he's not sure what to do with himself. When he finally gets the balls up to look back at Carl, at first he's just relieved he's not crying. But he does look resigned, maybe, and that's probably not good.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe. Whole reason this happened," he gestures up at his face, "is 'cause when I made it to the plaza, one of the goons decided to go eye for an eye for what I did to Negan."

Daryl blinks, not sure he's understanding right. " _Shit_ , seriously?"

Carl nods, not meeting his eyes.

"Fuck." Not for the first time, he's thinking that it would be really great if Rick were here, having this conversation instead. "What happened?"

At least Carl's grinning, a little bit. And after a minute he takes a breath. "He was talking to a few of his guys while the rest of them were running all over the place. Didn't notice me coming. Got close enough to stab him in the neck-" he's shaking his head, now, looking like he might puke- "with this stake that I had, but by then I'd been spotted. They caught me pretty quick, tackled me down. Dunno if it fell out, or if they'd had to take it out, but one of the guys had it. Shoved it in. Thought I was dying. Don't really know what happened after that, I just remember thinking that I was an idiot, that Dad was gonna freak out. Couldn't even remember what I was _doing_ there, you know?"

Daryl nods, but he doesn't have a clue.

"Something must've happened- like, I've been thinking about it. Maybe they went back over to Negan, or went back to fight, or just thought I was dead. But they all got off of me and... yeah."

He squares his shoulders and raises his chin. "I remember Negan was gurgling, when they came after me. I might've killed him. Might not've."

"That's pretty much the most badass thing I've ever heard of," Daryl eventually says, because he's not about to tell Carl, _that was stupid as hell_ when he's already lost the damn eye. Not when he's just done the most talking he's done since waking up, even if it's this fucked up.

Bullshit, with enough bravado behind it, becomes fact, after all. Only thing Daryl knows for certain is that, despite all evidence to the contrary, it's probably a good thing Rick ain't here right now.

\---

_Wednesday, 06/18/2194, 18:09_

Sasha needs to know. They should probably tell Connor.

He ain't sure _how_ , exactly, either of those conversations are going to go. But blurting it out at the dinner table's right out of the question, especially now that Carl's starting to sound a little more like his old self. Fifteen years old and bored as hell.

"I'll take a look at it tonight," Daryl assures him, ignoring the skeptical glances Connor and Mitch are exchanging. The damn media player's been dodgy since day one, and everyone knows it. Including Sasha, though that hadn't stopped her from offering it. Half the files don't open at all, and the other half aren't worth watching or listening to in the first place. If they could get it working, though, at least the kid would have something to pass the time.

Sasha's washing the last of her food down, undaunted. "You've got that book in the meantime, right?"

Carl is playing with his food, scraping his soy mash into a square with the back of his fork. But he raises his head and scans the table, subtly destroying his work as he scoops it up, sensing that it's been noticed. "It's fine. I know how it is."

Sasha clears her plate and heads back to wash it before going up to the bridge; silence reigns over the table in the meantime, at least until Rovia comes down to take her place.

"Quiet ride," Rovia updates them all tiredly, taking Sasha's vacated seat as Connor passes him a plate. "Anything interesting going on down here?"

Carl barely manages to cover a scoff, which has Dwight pulling a face. "Just filling Carl in on the endless stream of on-board entertainment options."

Rovia's nose scrunches up, smirking at Daryl on his way to Carl. "Just be careful you don't overdo it. Things have a tendency of getting pretty wild up here."

"I can tell," Carl deadpans. "I mean, _two_ sets of cards on board, it's pretty-" he breaks off, waving his hands to find the word he's looking for. "Extravagant."

\---

Daryl had, as promised, disappeared down to the workbench the moment he'd finished his food; everyone else had started trickling out not too long after. Which had pretty much left Paul free to drift over to the bench by the window with the vague notion of finding something to read

It's taken him an hour. None of the books in the cabinet are looking particularly interesting.

Maybe the Robinson one.

Meh. Someone'd brought that one along on a lark.

Then again, he can't even remember what he's read on the backs of any of the others, though he's scanned them all at least three times.

Carl'd gone up to sit with Sasha, for a while, and Paul's pretty sure he'd continued on down to the cargo bay to either hang with Daryl, or watch Mitch and Laura's Tuesday night sparring match. But he's back again, hesitating in the doorway.

"How's it going?" Paul grins, not really sure how to say _it's okay, you can be in here_ without making it sound weird. He's probably going to be heading back to his bunk in another minute anyway.

But still. Being a teenager is- and Paul's pretty sure he's remembering correctly- awful enough. Being a teenager on board a ship mostly full of strange adults has got to be worse. And with his two exceptions- Sasha and Daryl, who _might_ qualify as some sort of awkward aunt and uncle to him- dialing back their hovering over the past day or two, the kid's at loose ends.

"Feels like I'm supposed to be doing my homework or something, you know?"

"I'm sure Sasha could assign you some."

"Didn't say I was _that_ bored." It gets a laugh out of him, though, and he's taking a seat at the table; the movement nearly masks the irritated frown that cuts across his face. "Still couldn't read it anyway."

He probably doesn't welcome the idea of having it brought up, but maybe if Paul's casual enough about it...

He scans the books on the shelf again, not wanting to stare. "Your eye bothering you?"

"Not really?" The answer's a question, like maybe he's not sure how much he should admit to. "I just get headaches. Trying to focus, or whatever."

Nodding, Paul grabs a book at random and pulls it off the shelf. "We could get you some anaprox or something."

"Doesn't look like I'm going to have to be poring over history books or anything, so," Carl snaps his fingers in fake regret.

"Lucky you," Paul smirks, realizing what he'd grabbed. "Instead of that, we've got completely inaccurate nonsense instead." He flips the book over, intoning the blurb on the back of the nearly-crumbling cover as obnoxiously as he can manage. "For _eons_ , sandstorms have swept the barren, _desolate landscape_ of the red planet-"

"Seriously?"

"For _centuries_ ," he continues over the interruption, "Mars has beckoned to mankind to come and _conquer_ its hostile climate. _Now_ , in the year _2026_ , a group of one hundred colonists is about to fulfill that _destiny_."

"Sounds awesome." Carl is smirking, though, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up, I'm bored and feeling theatrical." He's not, not at all, but Carl's laughing and that's better than him hovering in doorways like some sort of displaced ghost. "So gather round, folks, it's _story time_."

Very clearly humoring him, Carl raises an eyebrow, daring him to start.

\---

_"Mars was empty before we came. That's not to say that nothing ever happened. The planet had accreted melted, roiled and cooled, leaving a surface scarred by enormous geological features: craters, canyons, volcanoes. But all of that happened in mineral unconsciousness, and unobserved. There were no witnesses- except for us, looking from the planet next door, and that only in the last moment of its long history. We are all the consciousness Mars has ever had..."_

\---

He glances up. Carl's staring at the table, his face blank. But he blinks up when he realizes that Paul has trailed off.

"I could keep going," he offers, raising his eyebrow, because it's weird- he's _being_ weird- and he knows it.

As does Carl, quite obviously. "Don't you have stuff to do?"

He shakes his head. Might as well roll with it. "Not even a little bit."

"Then shoot," Carl gestures back at him, makes a show of settling back into his seat. "If you want."

So fuck it. He does.

\---

_Wednesday, 06/18/2194, 21:01_

The media player _should_ be working, which means that everyone will have the option to watch the few dozen shitty movies if they're desperate, or at least listen to music by plugging it into their tablets.

Dwight and Laura had been right- it hadn't merely been a software issue, but the jack had lost a pin. Replacing it hadn't been hard, though the plastic housing is never going to sit exactly square. His neck feels a lot like that. Like leaning over the workbench for so long has permanently shifted the bones in his neck, never to straighten properly again.

He brings the player upstairs, goes to knock on Carl's door, and rolls his eyes when he hears giggling from the room behind him. Laura's room. Spencer's voice.

 _That_ particular arrangement, he's pretty sure, is gonna crash and burn. Not that it's any of his business.

No answer- maybe Carl's still bein' all antisocial or something- but up in the commons, Rovia's goin' on- kinda loud, though it isn't actually all that late- about some guy named Frank. Probably some Admin asshole, and when Daryl goes up the to check it out, he finds Carl sitting at the table, listening to Rovia read from a book.

Neither of them notice him there. So he moves on before they do, eases Carl's door open like some sorta thief, and leaves the drive on the desk.

Maybe he should leave him a note. But he'll figure it out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... guess I never actually posted the last update. Ah well. Four chapters up tonight it is, then!

CHAPTER

 _Monday, 06/23/2194, 23:46_

They're at it again. This time, Sasha and Dwight are in there with Carl, listening as Rovia reads aloud. Whatever he's rambling on about sounds boring as hell, but it ain't like there are a lot of other options out here. 

Sasha seems into it, but she clocks him heading past on his way up to the bridge, and she asks him if he wants to join in. 

Like hell.

\---

 _Tuesday, 06/24/2194, 22:59_

It's a regular thing, apparently. Rovia's Reading Hour. 

Tonight, when he swings past on his way to the head, it's Sasha reading, though, sitting cross-legged on the bench. Carl's sprawled out on the floor, sporting the new eye patch Sasha'd fashioned for him. Laura and Connor have chairs pulled over and Dwight's at the table, frowning at the solitaire game he's laid out. Rovia's off to the side. Looks like he might be sleeping. They're one dog and a soda fountain away from one of those old Rockwell paintings that used to show up in the SA propaganda.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 06/25/2194, 13:00_

"You should come hang out tonight," Sasha tells him. "We could use the extra readers. Otherwise we're gonna be running out of throat drops before we even hit the relay station. And the story's getting good, we can catch you up." 

"I've got the 6 to 12," he says, shrugging. _And even if I didn't..._

"Maybe some other time?" Sasha looks disappointed, but not enough, yet, that she's going to make a thing over it. "It's a good distraction, you know. For everyone, not just Carl."

"Sure."

\--- 

_Friday, 06/27/2194, 21:05_

It's _loud_ in here. 

It's funny, what being two days out from a relay point will do to people, but it's been a date on a calendar for a while now, and that had been excuse enough for Connor to take Dwight's bridge shift so that the crew could pile into the commons and overindulge. 

For the most part, anyway. Paul's only having the one drink, just enough to hopefully help him catch something _resembling_ a nap before his own shift starts at midnight. 

Besides, it's warm, crammed into the corner of the table next to Dwight and Carl the way he is. 

Carl'd been poker faced when Sasha'd slipped him the shot of whiskey, and for the last little while has been steamrolling through a retelling of the first four chapters of Red Mars for Dwight's benefit. Dwight's been doing a pretty good job of feigning interest, but his eyes are starting to glaze over.

Down on the other end of the table, Sasha's got her chair turned towards the bench where Spencer and Laura are sitting; Sasha's laughing so hard Paul can't even make out the story Spencer's attempting to tell. And on the other side of the room- still less than ten feet away, Daryl and Mitch are ranting back and forth about the ventilation systems. 

Some people are better at relaxing than others.

"So," Carl's telling Dwight, when Paul tunes in again, "you were Techniki, but you joined up with the Saviors."

"Yeah?" Dwight says, before Paul's even had a chance to track the segue from the book to whatever _this_ is conversation is going to be. "Why?"

"Your face," Carl says, loosely enough that Paul's suspecting that maybe he's had more than just the one drink; it's not like the bottle sitting open on the middle of the table is drastically out of reach. "Did Negan do that to you?"

"That was before. Fucked up on a heater valve repair, hence all this." Dwight gestures at his face with a smirk. "Fucked up my head some, memory went to hell, so I got transferred out. After that, it just kind of happened."

"Just like that?" 

Apparently Paul's the only one taking it upon himself to find the conversation awkward, because Dwight's shrugging easily. He doesn't seem bothered by the question; maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's that he and Carl have their own solidarity going, or maybe it's just not a sore point for him. Hell, it's not like Paul had ever asked him. 

"Eh, there was some other shit. Accidents happen, but people get weird, afterwards, you know?" Carl nods, seriously. "In my case, my not-yet-ex-wife was the one running the valve control. Between her guilt, or whatever, and my spending all my time down on the strip getting fucked up while I waited for the next ship, we split up."

"Crap." Carl frowns. "What happened?" 

"I figured making the trip with her was gonna be a nightmare anyway, and she didn't really want to leave in the first place. So yeah... that was kind of that."

Paul's not sure whether it's because Dwight's starting to looking awkward, or that Mitch is squeezing past to head for the bathroom and his attention's just being drawn by the movement, but Daryl's watching their exchange, now. And with maybe a little more interest than usual, he's downing his drink. 

Carl's too riveted to notice. "But you never left."

"Shit happened." Dwight shrugs. And the only reason Paul can see the way his eyes darting in Daryl's direction is that he's looking for it, now. "She got on the ship, and I didn't."

"Yeah, but... how do you go from _that_ to running with _Negan_?"

At this, Dwight's eyebrow twitches, and he glances sideways at Paul, who should probably be interjecting with a change of subject, now. "I can't remember."

Carl, too far into his own headspace, doesn't seem to notice how uncomfortable things have gotten, or that Daryl's already edged past Sasha to refill his glass. He's shaking his head. "Bullshit."

Daryl's doing a fairly good approximation of casual, but there's a tightness around his mouth and his gaze is trained squarely on the table. "Carl, ease up with the third degree, all right?"

Carl's eyes go wide, and because the two men bracketing are studiously avoiding looking up, Paul's the only one who catches the way the teen's trying to gauge both of their reactions at once. 

"Yeah," he says, eyes eventually settling on Dwight. "Shit. Sorry, man."

"No problem, it's all good," Dwight reassures him, but the relieved nod of his head is directed at Daryl, who's nodding back as he turns away. 

Somewhere in the last few seconds, Sasha and Spencer have caught some of the exchange, and Sasha's the first one to recover. 

"Yeah, Carl, if you're gonna go dragging out all _his_ dirty laundry, you gotta tell us all about that whole thing with you, Tyler and _Enid_."

She sounds giggly and gossipy, which is strange for her, even drunk. But there might be more to it. Because right now, everyone's crowing with laughter, teasing Carl as he groans, embarrassed, and nobody's watching Daryl slipping out into the corridor. 

\---

He's not surprised when he hears the knocking on his door. He's not even _that_ surprised to Rovia standing on the other side of it. 

He steps aside anyway. He's returning to the desk when he realizes it would mean that Rovia would have to sit on the bed, and that would be weird. So once he's grabbed the bottle off the desk, he shifts over and waves Rovia to take the chair, like he'd meant to the whole time. 

Now that Rovia's set foot inside, though, it's like the he's run out of momentum. Instead of sitting down, he's just leaning against the cabinets. 

Maybe this'll just be quick, then. 

"So... What was that, earlier? You and Dwight."

Or maybe not. He snorts, tops off his drink just to be doing something. 

"A conversation that wasn't going to go anywhere good." Probably a lot like this one is doomed to. At least Dwight ain't the type to belabor the damned point. 

"How so?" Rovia shakes his head when Daryl offers him the bottle. "Thanks, I've got the overnight. But. All that. Anything to worry about?" 

"Me and Dwight?" Rovia nods. "Uh. Nah. It's done with." Probably.

"Everything good? You just... took off kind of quickly."

That, he thinks, really _is_ a question for Dwight. Though he's shown no more interest in pursuing the subject than Daryl has. Otherwise, shit could- probably _would_ \- get messy. Like fifteen year-olds stumbling drunkenly into topics nobody else wants to dredge up, for example. Or squints showing up to lean against the cabinets looking worried at the prospect that something could be bad for morale. Wanting to talk just 'cause they'd found the habit of running their mouths for hours every night. 

Rovia's staring at him so intently- he's perceptive, and more than he needs to be- that Daryl can't help laughing. It's weird. He probably sounds like a crazy person, so he reins it in. "You really want to know?"

"Only whatever you feel like telling me."

There's a part of him that's either sober or drunk enough to realize that _that_ , right there, is the most predictable response Rovia could possibly give. Friendly concern, lending no clue as to where it's all coming from, with just the right level of Administrative distance. 

'Course, it ain't like Rovia needs to spell it out. If he's noticed enough to be bringing it up, it's probably more of an issue than Daryl'd been wanting to admit. Shit gets weird with the crew, someone's going to have to warn Connor. And worse, Sasha'll get dragged into it. 

So be it. At least he's not being a dick about it. 

"The shit that happened, that Dwight was talking about." Or not talking about, more to the point, something that Daryl's only truly appreciating now. "He was talking about Merle." 

"Who's that?

"My brother. He's dead." He takes another drink, mostly so he doesn't have to look at Rovia's face, but he can still hear him.

Rovia gives it a few seconds- he's probably counting them off in his head- before speaking the inevitable. "I'm sorry."

 _Only 'cause you didn't know him_. Daryl swallows. The whiskey doesn't burn; his throat's already numb. 

"So, what happened?"

"Few months after Dwight got his face melted off, I guess, there was one of those-" he waves his hand up towards the commons- "resupply parties, or whatever. Merle hooked up with this woman named Sherry. I didn't really know who she was until later, but word got around." 

It takes Rovia a second to track it, but he's clear when he does. "She's Dwight's ex?"

"Think she was. Don't really know. At the time, I mean." Honestly, he and Dwight _should_ probably sit down and talk it out one of these days, 'cause now that they're stuck here, it's probably fucked up of him to be spillin' all this, especially if he's got it all wrong. "Anyway. Long story short, she and Merle hooked up, Merle got violent, and she skated out on the ship two days later." 

It's a long few seconds before Rovia replies. "Sounds like that was for the best."

"Probably." For her, at least. "Only. There was a bunch of people caught wind of it down on the strip. Few days later, Merle got caught up in an accident out past the membrane. Used to think it was Dwight that did it." 

Rovia actually looks surprised. " _Used_ to?" 

"Well. Dwight wasn't Techniki by then- and it was before Negan had become a big deal and everything- but he still had friends on the crew. Bunch of them were up in arms over the shit. I talked Rick into getting the details about what happened from one of his buddies in AdSec, and started digging through it."

"Find anything?

"Stopped looking. Wasn't any proof it was anything more than an accident." Daryl frowns. Toys with the idea of finishing his drink, but he ain't tryin' to look like this is bothering him. It's old done shit, he's already drunk anyway. "Besides," he continues, "by the end of it, seemed like it was bad enough, Merle getting rough with some other guy's wife. Figured, if I dug any deeper I'd have proof he was worse than I thought he was, and he was already dead." 

Rovia nods, eyes riveted to the floor, expressionless as he mulls it over. Apparently, what he's landing on, is, "Did you get along with your brother?"

"Did you get along with your stepdad?"

Rovia winces. "Touche. Sorry."

"Sorry."

Rovia interlaces his fingers in front of him, stretching them out. "Well, ah... Thanks for telling me, I guess. Didn't mean to dredge up old crap."

"You're doin' what you gotta do," Daryl nods, grateful that at least he's not being a dick about it. "I get it."

He's tilting his head back to drink, but he catches it. The way Rovia's face shutters, just for a moment, and the way he's flexing his hand, the way he did constantly the first few weeks they were out here. 

"Yeah. Cool," Rovia smiles. It's fake as hell.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sunday, 06/29/2194, 15:30_

"Okay, Sasha's rebooted the hull sensors," Paul calls up to the bridge. "Try it again."

It's impossible to come to a complete stop in the jump lane, so with the drift, their window's already narrowing. But the novelty of looking out and actually _seeing_ something, floating less than thirty meters away- right there on the outer edge of the jump lane- has yet to wear off. But there it is, absolutely still. A black metal box, suspended in a metal frame, rudder extended and solar panels, for the moment, retracted. The lights on the side of the satellite insist that it's receiving. 

Which would be great, if it actually _was_. 

It's making him nervous, and he's not the only one. Carl's hunched over the table, hands folded over his arms, staring out into the corridor. He hasn't moved in at least half an hour, and at this point, Paul's not sure if it's hope or terror that's keeping him there. 

Audio communications being less efficient than the databursts, protocol dictates they be given lower priority. They're going to try to get his family on the line. But nobody's making any promises. 

"Nothing," Mitch's voice bounces down from the bridge. "Think we're going to need to send them out for a manual."

"Try it again." Connor sounds irritated; it's only worse when he hits the comms button on the wall and his voice goes ship-wide, the nearly robotic voice doubling him.

"Window's estimated at sixty five minutes and counting," he announces for the benefit Dwight and Daryl, downstairs at airlock two. "Trying one more time but be ready to get out for a manual."

"Just working on the kickboard rigs." Dwight sounds like he's got his helmet on; tinny and rounded out, all at once. "Another five and we'll be ready to go."

"Confirmed. Sasha, you mind helping them make it three?"

Paul would hazard a guess that her anxious frown is less about the half-reassembled sensor control housing she's trying to replace than it is about Carl.

"I'll do it," Paul tells her, backing away with a final glance out the window. If something else goes wrong with the hull sensors- or with Carl- she's better suited to deal with it than he is. 

He doesn't know if they'll have time for Connor to establish audio communications. He doesn't know if Dockside will be able to alert Carl's family- if he still _has_ family- and get them up to the control room. Hell, they don't even know if Dockside's still _functioning_. 

He's not the only one doing the math, and he doesn't have anything to offer that'll make the reality of _waiting_ any better. So yeah. He's actually okay with escaping the common room, right now. Out in the corridor, though, away from the eyes that hadn't been watching him anyway, he's struck by a wave of startling self-pity 

He doesn't have anyone back home he's hoping to talk to, he realizes. Heath, maybe, or Marlena or Dale, but it's not as if any of them are waiting to hear from him, or that the databursts won't cover what needs to be covered. 

Besides. He's an adult- one of many on board. This isn't about him. So he sucks it up, and climbs down the ladder. 

\--- 

The airlock door is small, and too easy to get caught up on, if not on the sealsuits themselves, then on all the goddamned _peripherals_. Primary and secondary haul cables tangle easily enough on their own, and that's before the lights and kickboard rigging and the rest of it is taken into account. 

The sealsuits, compressors, helmets and gloves are nothing new. Daryl hadn't done as much outside the membrane as others had, but he knows what an unseated helmet latch feels like through half-inch thick gloves, and that it's rude to be wearing said gloves when checking someone else's. 

Dwight's not so far removed from his Techniki days that he's forgotten that either, which he appreciates. Because it's one thing to help someone hijack a ship, it's another to let them push you _off_ of it. In the middle of the jump lane. 

With no gravity. 

"You ever deal with these things?" Wrestling with the velcro, trying to secure the straps into place, Dwight's had only slightly more luck getting his kickboard rig strapped to his bicep and forearm than Daryl's having. 

"Not since the ride out," Daryl shakes his head, partially because they've had this conversation twice already, and partially because they both know that one relay-stop training exercise does not experience make. Swinging his elbow in, he manages to get the dangling strap swinging with enough momentum that he can catch it. Twisting the strap with glove-clumsy fingers in order to get it into position to thread into the latch is not as successful. 

"Haven't even gotten _into_ one of these things in two years," Dwight grumbles, making a move that might be a shrug- between the sealsuit, the helmet, the compressor and the gear, it's hard to tell. It's a weird disconnect; him being on comms, his voice bouncing around inside Daryl's helmet loud as anything, while everything else he does is so muted. 

The kickboards themselves are plugged to the wall inside the airlock; they're heavy as hell, not that it will matter once they're clear of the ship's artificial gravity. What _will_ matter is the mobility assistance. Otherwise they'll have to be hauled back to the ship, find their footing on the hull and kick off, carefully, in the direction of the relay station. Hoping for the best, using up more air than they need to, and most infuriatingly, probably having to repeat the whole process several times just to make it. 

"How's it going?" Rovia's coming down the ladder, looking like he's about to remind them that the window's already closing. 

"Almost there," Daryl glances up at Dwight to confirm; he has to turn his entire body just to glance back in Rovia's direction. As he does so, he finally manages to get the tip of the strap wedged into the catch, and is able to start shoving it through. "Still no luck?"

Shaking his head, Rovia scratches his arm; almost immediately, Daryl's own starts itching. Down under the suit where he can't get to it. 

"Well, think we're ready to go."

There ain't no thinking about it. He and Dwight have been double checking everything for the past few minutes. But Rovia's admin, who probably needs to cross it off a list somewhere, and there ain't much point in arguing. As far as these things go go, given the way Rovia's studying Dwight's primary and secondary clip-ins, and resetting the velcro over the loose ends- seriously, six inches of drifting nylon strap isn't going to be what takes either of them down- the whole process is taking too long.

" _Got_ it," Mitch interjects, triumphantly, just as Rovia's okayed Dwight's glove seals. 

"That's confirmed," Connor follows. "We're transmitting and receiving. Hailing dockside now. You can lose the helmets for now, but stay ready."

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/29/2194, 15:48_

Standing here in this cramped anteroom, between airlock two and the cargo bay, Paul's really not sure what the hell he's doing beyond developing a new sort of acute claustrophobia. 

Daryl and Dwight, on the other hand, don't seem overly concerned. Now that they've got their helmets off, they seem bored, like waiting launching themselves out of the airlock and to the edge of the jump lane to troubleshoot a 50 year old satellite is just another day at the office. Of course, they're Technicki. It probably _is_.

Even so, there's no gravity out there. This is probably the sort of thing Mitch, Laura or Connor should be doing. Pointing it out now isn't going to do anyone any good, though, so Paul just stands here and waits, dwarfed by the both of them. The blinding shoulder-mounted peripheral lights paint wildly swerving shadows on the walls whenever either of them shifts, and between the boots and the helmets and the bulk of their equipment, it's surreal. Like standing between two slightly mobile statues in a silent nightclub.

And it _is_ silent down here, or near enough. The main engines are off. Every so often one of the side thrusters engages for a moment or two, endeavoring to hold them in place as long as they can, prolonging their window. 

The creaking of sealsuit synthetics are all the only sounds filling the space for what feels like a very long time, afterwards. Paul doesn't even know if the bridge is still on a ship-wide broadcast, not until the wall comms unit finally starts crackling.

"Databurst exchange is complete." Laura's announcing. "Unzipping the files now."

"That was quick," Paul says, just to fill the space. But Dwight smirks, skeptical. 

"Long as it works." 

And maybe he'd jinxed it and maybe he hadn't, because it's only another few minutes before Connor's alerting them that something's wrong.

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/29/2194, 16:09_

The Colony had pinged back without incident, and the databurst exchange had gone smoothly. 

They'd made audio contact with Councilman Singh, for all of four seconds.

But then his signal had cut out, replaced by a deep, grinding static, and then nothing. 

Rovia's heading for the ladder, shouting, not bothering to deal with the comms system. "What's going on?"

"Not sure," Mitch shouts back, at least having enough sense to take them off comms before deafening everyone. 

"The relay station's fucked, and the window's closing, _that's_ what." Connor says, through the comms link. 

Dwight's looking at him. "Think we can fix it?"

Daryl nods, though he doesn't have a clue, and he slams a clumsy hand against the talkback button on the control panel. "You want us out there? How's our window looking?" 

It'll be tight. Getting out there isn't the issue. Troubleshooting a relay satellite blind is another story entirely. 

And there's still no answer from the bridge. 

"The fuck? Rovia, you got your tablet on you?" 

Nodding, startled, he pulls it out of his pocket. It takes him a minute to mirror the bridge systems, and another minute after that to start talking. Even before he does, he's frowning. 

"They're running remote diagnostics," he says. "Looking at the power systems right now..." He prods at the screen for a second, then snorts. "Overdue for maintenance. Fucking figures."

The bridge is a few steps ahead of him, apparently. "Rovia, Dwight, Daryl," Connor calls down. "It's a stab in the dark, but going off the maintenance log, best bet is that it's a capacitor issue. Good news is that it's an easy replacement, long as we have a CK-509."

"Shit," Dwight grumbles, gesturing at Rovia and pointing at the tablet. "Haven't seen one. Anything in the manifest?"

"We're looking, hang on," Rovia, again not bothering with the comms system, shouts up to the bridge, then edges past and disappears into the cargo bay. Daryl takes a few steps to follow, but slowed by the suit, they're pointless.

He's dragging crates around in there, and there's a loud thud as one hits the floor. And he's back, sooner than any of them would probably like. Daryl's pretty sure he's reaching for the talkback button just to put off the delivery of bad news. 

"Nothing on the manifest, and nothing in the hold. Are we _sure_ that's what's going on?"

The bridge opens up on comms, but it's a moment before Connor responds. "Everyone, stand down. Stow the suits and gear, I'm calling it. Laura, Mitch, as soon as we're clear, engage the autopilot. We'll debrief in the commons in fifteen."

\--- 

_Sunday, 06/29/2194, 16:30_

"What happened?"

"It initially registered a charge of 78% when we dialed in." Laura explains, making room for Dwight at the table. "Low, but nothing to worry about. The relay drained it far more quickly than it should've, best I can tell. We managed to pull a diagnostic snapshot, it'll be worth going over in the next few weeks."

"Would've been nice if we could've fixed it, though." Dwight says. "Kind of feels like a waste of a suitup, otherwise." He grins over at Connor, "I mean, I get it, I do. Just sayin', is all."

His attempt at levity doesn't go over as well as it could've, but the tension in the room eases, somewhat. 

"We were already on the back half of our window, and, as much as I hate to be the one to say it, our primary objective has been met. Now. Make a note that when we get to checkpoint two, we assume we'll be finding it in the same bad condition. So we'll slow our approach by another twenty percent, and try to extend the window enough for a closer look. Agreed?"

He doesn't have to get any sort of consensus, but he's not saying it for the benefit of Mitch, Laura, or Dwight; he's trying to negotiate any sort of silver lining at all for Carl. And maybe Spencer, too. His jumping up to go make a pot of coffee for everyone had probably been more about a temporary escape- even if it is only six feet away in their cubby of a kitchen- than any real need. 

Daryl's footsteps are loud in the corridor as he enters the room; his coveralls are only half buttoned over his thermals, and his boots are unlaced. 

"Sorry I'm late." If Paul'd had any sort of clue how to properly stash the sealsuits and peripherals, Daryl wouldn't have had to stay down there to get it all locked down properly. He tries shooting him an apologetic grin, but Daryl's too busy trying to get a surreptitious read on Carl and Sasha to notice. 

"It's fine," Connor eases down into the spot next to Mitch, setting his tablet on the table. "Take a seat and we'll get started."

There are a few open spots at the table, but it's a little surprising that Daryl's leaving the one next to Carl open- probably because it's closest to the kitchen where Spencer's messing around- and sitting down next to him instead. 

So he might as well try apologizing again. "Sorry about that. Downstairs." 

Daryl gives him a confused look, which is still better than the irritated eye-rolling he'd been doing when he'd shooed Paul back upstairs. "It's cool."

Spencer's bringing coffee out; nobody says anything about the bottle of whiskey he's brought out along with it. Carl, looking relieved to be doing anything at all, reaches over and starts pulling cups out of the cabinet, passing them around the table. 

Paul's not the only one eyeing the bottle, but he pours himself some coffee when Daryl passes him the carafe; Sasha, on his other side, does the same. 

The whiskey's there, just in case, but pouring any out now is just admitting defeat. 

Connor clears his throat, looking around the table with a grim smile. "I know, this is tense, and the communications attempt was underwhelming at best. But here's the thing. We made contact. Dockside was operational. Councilman Singh was there. For any of the bad news we're about to receive, it's no small thing, what we've already managed."

Sasha's shifting; glancing over, he can see her gripping Carl's hand under the table. Paul's quick to swing his eyes away, back to Connor, who's scrolling down his tablet. 

"All right," he nods to himself, but then brightens, looking relieved. "I'll talk you all through the main updates, but you'll all be happy to know that you'll be getting personal files forwarded to your own devices, as soon as I'm done here. Looks like mail call came in for everyone. Also, aside from the personal files, everything will be on the main drive for later reference." 

Paul's curious, though not as obviously so as Laura, across the table is. She's practically bouncing in her seat. 

Connor recovers his tone, though, straightening up. "All right. I'm thinking I'll either start with the newsburst, or with the personnel roster. Depending on how that goes, we can move on to the department updates."

Carl raises his free hand. It's shaking. "Um. I mean. Can we... personnel?"

"Of course." 

It's clear that Connor's trying to treat this as routine a discussion as possible, but it's hard not to notice the deep breath he takes as he taps at the screen. Paul can't see from here, but Mitch and Laura, seated to either side of him, make no bones about staring over his shoulder. 

Everyone can see it, when he reads something he doesn't like, but he recovers quickly. 

"Okay. First thing's first. Grimes, Judith. Alive, visited SciMed last week for booster shots." Carl's shoulders jerk so hard that Sasha shifts with them. "Grimes, Richard. Alive." 

Carl's trying to catch his breath, maybe trying not to start crying, but Sasha's moving fast, dragging him into a hug while the rest of the table tries not to watch them too intrusively. 

"What about Michonne? And Enid?"

Connor taps at the top of his screen, no doubt re-sorting the list. "Both are alive."

"Shit fucking _yeah!_ " Daryl shoves back from the table, crashing into Paul as he does so. His laughter's infectious- after a moment Carl's even joining in- but it trails off, quickly. The list is still there, and there's bad news on it somewhere. 

Though not just yet, because Connor's telling Spencer that his mother's still alive. His reaction isn't quite so visceral; he just blinks, and heaves out a relieved sigh, finally smiling. 

"All right. Moving on. Other friends or family?" 

Paul wants to ask, but everyone else is glancing around the table, curious and wary. It might be other people's lives they're playing with, but it's still Russian Roulette. 

"Okay," Connor decides at length, reaching for the bottle and pouring a shot into his coffee before passing it to Mitch. "As much as I'd like to leave us embracing the high notes, I think that we should at least go through the list of the dead and missing. They're here, after all, and we've got whiskey to toast them with." 

Connor reads ahead as the bottle makes the rounds. Once everyone's ready, he sighs. "Well, easing into it, I'm assuming that few tears will be shed for the passing of Negan or Simon." He takes a drink while Daryl and Carl, on either side of them, trade inscrutable looks. "I'm just going to go down the list alphabetically by last name. Good luck to us all, I suppose."

Clearing his throat, he begins to read aloud, and Paul steels himself for the worst.

"Marlon Anderson, Techniki." 

He's not starting off with _Heath Anderson_ , which has him breathing an internal sigh of relief. 

"Tim Carson, Agriculture. Councilman Malcolm Coates. Dr. Alex Culver, SciMed."

"Fuck," Sasha says. It's probably good that someone's reacting, even if it isn't him. 

Coates isn't all that surprising. He would've gotten down into the midst of it. Alex, though, _shit_. Paul hadn't even _thought_ about him in weeks. They'd ended, and that had been the end of it, but regardless, he should probably be feeling more than _this_. 

But Connor's not done yet, and everyone's still holding their breath. 

"Jared Duncan, AdSec... Thomas Frederickson, Techniki. Beth and Hershel Greene, Agriculture."

Daryl's angrily muttered " _fuck_ " is quiet, but real enough that Paul doesn't risk more than an abortive glance in his general direction. 

It's the distance, he decides. They'd left, and even this much contact hadn't been guaranteed. Or maybe it's just that this is all going to hit him later. 

Hershel and Beth, though. It's awful. 

"Joseph Hoover, AdSec. Gavin Johnson, AdSec. Berneice Maitlin, Techniki. Fredrick Martin, Agriculture. Chad McKenzie, AdSec. Ed Peletier, AdSec."

Daryl snorts at this, but Sasha's arms are crossing over her stomach, tighter and tighter with each word as she stares at the table. Everyone else is leaning in close, either trying to hear better, or trying to duck each others' eyes. 

"Miranda Ruiz, Techniki. Carly Tessman, AdSec. Father Gabriel Stokes, _shit_." Connor stops, takes a drink, his eyes darting around the table apologetically. 

Right now, Paul's not certain what they'd hoped to achieve, airing it all out like this, and he's pretty sure Connor would agree with him. But he continues on. 

"Robert Stookey, Techniki. Rory Vincent, Admin." 

That's the most surprising one. Paul hadn't known Rory well. Even so, he can't imagine him taking any risks that would've cotton himself killed. The guy barely left his computer for more than two minutes. 

"And Craig Wesley, Techniki." Connor sets his tablet down, takes a breath. He looks lost for words, and it shouldn't be as unsettling as it is. "To all of you, and everyone not here, I'm sorry for your losses. If any of you want to talk, I'm here, all right?"

Laura and Mitch are the only ones meeting Paul's eye, albeit awkwardly. There hadn't been any Docksiders on the list; either the fighting hadn't gotten over there, or they'd been trained well enough to survive it. And hell, department-wise, Admin hadn't had that many casualties either, despite the Saviors' best intentions. 

They'd gotten off easily, and they all know it. 

It's just everyone _else_ around the table, trying to hold themselves together right now. 

\---

 _Sunday, 06/29/2194, 20:05_

After the toasts and a few minutes spent awkwardly staring at the table, nobody'd had much energy left to deal with the rest of the updates. People'd gone back to their shifts or their quarters, and dinner had been a silent, depressing affair. Carl hadn't shown up for it at all, leaving a gap around the table that had been impossible to ignore. 

He'd opened the door when Daryl'd stopped by his quarters, though. Hadn't said much, not that Daryl'd done much better; he'd managed some platitudes about Rick and Michonne and Judith. He'd tried raising the topic of the Greenes, only to find out that neither of them knew where to go with it. 

Carl'd practically had his nose pressed against his tablet before Daryl'd gotten the message that he didn't want to talk any more. But Michonne hadn't been around to do the asking, so he'd sucked it up and pressed. 

"You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah," Carl'd insisted, sitting up. "I mean. This all sucks, but... think I'm just gonna. Y'know. Look at the files."

"All right. Cool." Daryl'd stood up, wiping his sweaty hands on his coveralls as he'd backed towards the door. "Good. I'll-"

"What about you?"

He'd stopped in the doorway, trying to think what Sasha would suggest, before realizing that she'd probably be down here rehashing this whole thing herself fairly soon. "Like you said. It sucks. We'll deal, right? Let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

They'd both been relieved, probably, when he'd left, though it hadn't lasted. Because he's spent the last few hours sitting here with his feet up on the bunk, no closer to actually opening his messages, because he's just been spinning his wheels on everything he should've said differently.

There's probably a shrink somewhere that would take issue with his deciding that he's wasted the last several hours, but either he can sit here and continue to do so, or he can get downstairs and start scrounging the cargo bay for something that might give them an edge at the next relay point. 

Ordinarily, it would've been their last chance to _maybe_ speak to anyone until their return trip, but with relay point one being dead in the water, there's nothing to bounce the signal back. On top of that, relay point two had probably been damaged when the Ambition had met its end; could be, there's no station at all, there. Just debris clogging the lane. 

And they'll need to be ready to handle it, whatever it turns out to be. Might as well get started now.


	10. Chapter 10

_Daryl,_

_Hey, how're you doing?_

_We're safe, climbing back up to okay. It's a little hard to do when you've got friends lost in space (yes I'm looking at you) but we manage._

_I already put most of the "official informative" stuff in the main update. This is just a quick note to say good luck, and, just in case Rick's being his usual stoic self, we miss you. A lot._

_And, because neither you nor Carl are here to roll your eyes at me, it means a lot that you're out there with and for each other. Thanks for looking out for him. (Eyes rolled back into place yet? Good.) Yeah, I know you'd do it anyway, but you're on a spaceship light years away and we are allowed to be worried._

_I wish I had more to say. But that's pretty much the one thing I need you to hear: you're missed, and we love you._

_-Michonne_

\--- 

_ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?_

_I mean, Hi Paul, I hope this note finds you well and alive._

_But seriously, what happened? I mean, okay. One day you're this scrawny meddling pencil-pusher, and the next, you're getting your ass thrown in prison, joining up with a revolutionary group and stealing ships?_

_In case nobody else is saying it, I wouldn't have thought you had it in you, but I think I'm glad that you did._

_It's been three weeks since you and Connor and the rest of your crew pulled that insane move. I'm going to hold off on ranting about all the fighting it caused- it was probably inevitable, and I know you didn't throw the first stone. I have to say, though, I wouldn't have seen that coming. Also, I hope like hell that it works._

_I'm sure the updates will give you the details, but it's taken about three weeks for us to get our ducks in a row. We're still standing. The Saviors are pretty much all dealt with- it's taken a while to get them all sorted out, and we are fairly certain that all the movers and shakers are enjoying the irony of being locked into the prison cells they were so intent on organizing. I know I am._

_Negan's dead, Simon is too. Been hearing a lot about one named Dwight's, who's one of the good guys, apparently, though I'd maybe advise him to steer clear for a few hundred years unless he wants to go through a fairly arduous legal battle._

_I don't know. Someone else will probably have more information for you. As far as the rest of us go, we're getting things back on track. The new Council's been doing amazing work- who'd have thought bringing Techniki and Ag on board would actually simplify things, right?- and we've already started implementation in the Ag department._

_I think we're going to make it. That said, take a look at the report from SciMed- the microbiologists have some concerns and needs that, if met, would make the Ag diversification project go much more smoothly, and we'd appreciate that being highlighted with the powers that be. Also, the rubidium vein's been exposed out in Sector 17. Nothing to worry about yet, as long as we get to it sooner rather than later._

_Good luck and godspeed,_

_Dale Hovarth_

_ps. If that Spencer shit really did sneak onto your ship, punch him for all of us._

\--- 

_Daryl,_

_Sorry this is short, I was up night trying to get the databurst in order with Michonne and Gina._

_Guessing you saw the news by now. It sucks. Beth and Hershel went out fighting. We're hanging on to that. It'll be a lot easier on all of us when we hear that you guys are okay. Not trying to guilt trip you. Unless it's useful motivation to BE CAREFUL OUT THERE, in which case_

_Hey Daryl, it's Glenn, taking over the letter writing duties because Maggie lied. She was up all night puking (because we're having a kid!) and tonight's looking like more of the same._

_So. How's space treating you?_

_Um... yeah, it's been crazy around here. Maggie's splitting her time between here (Ag) and the Council stuff, I'm splitting my time between here and the repairs back at the house. Rick's sporting a misery beard, but he's keeping everything going._

_Oh! Here's some good news: Tara and Denise are getting hitched next month. And, you know. Saviors are pretty much taken care of, so that's cool (tell Carl thanks for that. Maybe don't tell him that Enid wants to kick his ass. Or do. I'm not the boss of you). Aaron and Eric are over in Admin now, which is weird, but there's been a lot of back and forth with everyone- kind of re-settling everywhere- and they're doing okay._

_Okay, it's sounding like it's time for me to go in for another round of practicing the whole "putting stubborn unruly puking humans" to bed thing, so I'm gonna go ahead and send this._

_All right, good luck man!_

_-Glenn (and Maggie)_

\--- 

_Greetings, Connor and Paul,_

_For the sake of my own sanity, I'm writing to you the assumption that Spencer has made it on board, and that you are all alive and well._

_Please understand why he's there. It's not that I lack faith in your endeavor. The best plans are only as good as their backup plans, and that's what we're hoping he can be for you. He is carrying information with him which, given the climate at the time- Paul's imprisonment, and Connor's precarious position thanks to the Savior issue- I could not give to you in good faith._

_If Spencer is there with you, he can confirm the following._

_Prior to the Ambition's failed mission, we received a list of NATOPS primary bases, which I presume is still available to you. It is inaccurate, and deliberately so, due to the ongoing security concerns of NATOPS command, due to their decreased vetting capabilities since '91. It was a tactical decision on their part, one which I do not agree with. I've attached this information here, and should anyone choose to come out here and slap my wrists for breaking policy, it is my truest hope that they do so._

_Best of luck to you, I hope- for many reasons- that this information is redundant, and that you are able to re-establish contact with us at the relay point._

_In solidarity,_

_Deanna Monroe_

\--- 

_Daryl,_

_I don't even know where to start. Michonne's been telling me for three days to get my shit together on this and it just hasn't happened. Sorry about that._

_So._

_I hope you get this at all, and that you're doing all right, and that Carl's with you._

_(Think I just wrote more to him than I've said to him out loud in the past three years. This whole thing is just weird, you know?)_

_I'm sorry for how things turned out. That they went as far as they did. We should've had your back more than we did. I keep wondering what would've happened if I'd pulled my head out of my ass and started addressing Negan's bullshit sooner. Before that day in the yard, and before they grabbed you._

_I came out here to avoid the war back home. Guess I did too good a job of it, ducking my head in the sand while it eroded out from under me, and if there's anything the last month or so's proven, I wasn't the only one. It's not an excuse, just an explanation. You and Carl and Sasha wouldn't have to be doing what you're doing if we'd done a better job. That said, we're fucking proud of all of you._

_(On a side note: I just wrote a letter to my teenaged son telling him, in part, that I'm proud of him for killing a man. This is not how I expected our lives to go.)_

_By now, you probably know about the deaths, and the rest of the bad. Maggie's had a rough time of it, of course, but she's on the Council now (as is with Michonne; she said she wrote you) and she and Glenn are expecting a kid. The cases against the remains of the Savior leadership are starting to wind down; lots of debate about what we're going to do with the guilty. Most of the rest of them were like you. They didn't want to be there in the first place. It's still tense with them, and there've been some rough patches. The fighting might be over but the factions and anxiety are a thing- if you see anything about OT breaking from Alexandria, that's kind of what's been going on there._

_But we're working on it._

_Actually, you might appreciate this. The whole war- if that's what we're calling it- really came down to two people. Carl, and Dr. Cloyd. When things got to the worst, She basically took over SciMed, went on the newsfeeds, and announced that SciMed would no longer devote resources to Saviors unless they "calmed their asses down and stopped behaving like shortsighted braindead zombie monsters." Most of the Saviors dropped their blasters down on the strip and just retreated back to their training yard, and the surrender was official within the hour._

_Michonne's been trying to talk her into joining the Council, but she says she's not having any of it until they get AdSec sorted out first. Looks like they've got that Heath guy working on it, but I haven't heard anything in a few days about it._

_Judith is walking now. Aaron's moved over to Engineering to oversee the rubidium capping project- the last big storm exposed the upper vein, so that three years estimate is more like six months- so he and Eric are moving over to Admin. Alexandria took a hit during the fighting- not as bad as OT- but we're rebuilding like we always do. It should still look like home when you guys get back._

_Until then, take care of each other, or I'm gonna kick your ass._

_All right. Hope to talk to you on Sunday. Thanks for everything._

_-R_

\--- 

_Hey, Paul. Word on the street is that Carl Grimes is on board with you. Thank him for me, would you?_

_Anyhow, hope things are going all right. We're all looking forward to hearing from you all on Sunday._

_-Heath_


	11. Chapter 11

_Sunday, 06/29/2194, 23:55_

He used to have this cat, back home. Just showed up one day at the cabin and moved in. Would scream at the door all day, then go outside to scream at the other side of it. 

Sittin' his ass down and actually reading the damned letters should've stopped his brain from doing the same, but it ain't worked for shit so far. And now that he has, all he's got is a bunch of people's words that he doesn't know what to do with. 

He _does_ have the fuses, capacitors, resistors and the rest of that crap sorted out in the cabinets, now, and the wire spools are all labeled _correctly_ now, but there are still eight kinds of exterior patch material sitting in the crate that're going to take a second set of eyes; the print on the backing's too faint to read on most of them. 

They'd mastered hyperjump travel. By now, someone should've invented self-stick condensation-shedding solar cell patches that don't interfere with sensor readings, short out circuits, or cause component overheating. Like the duct tape they used back home. 

He's going to have to talk to Carl again. Maybe everything'll be settled more- won't look so fucking weird- by tomorrow. 

"Oh. Sorry."

Daryl's first thought is that Rovia's looking to get a workout in, only if he were, he probably would've brought water down here, and not the whiskey. It's more likely that he'd sleepwalked down here; he seems vaguely surprised to be finding himself standin' in the hold.

"It's cool. Just finishing up." Daryl grabs a rag off the workbench, wipes his hands off. Habit, more'n anything. 

"With what?"

He can't remember, honestly, so he just gestures at the workbench, and Rovia nods, slowly. Equally slowly, he makes his way onto one of the nearby crates and cracks open the bottle, throwing back a shot. 

"You read your letters?" Scowling as he swallows, he holds out the bottle. 

"Yeah. You?" 

"Yeah. Heath, from AdSec, Spencer's mother, and an old coworker."

He takes a swallow and passes it back. "Anything interesting?"

Rovia scratches his neck. "Guess the rubidium vein's been exposed, a few years ahead of schedule. They're going to have to cap it before the dust gets blown into the vents."

"I heard. Got a friend working on the project. Aaron, you know him?"

Rovia's blinking confusedly. 

"Technicki. Just moved over to Engineering."

There's a spark of recognition, and Rovia seems to wake up. "You talking about the guy who's with Eric?" 

Daryl nods. 

"They're cool." 

It's a little funny, how people always know what's up when it comes to who's sleeping with who, and never know shit about anything important. Or like, how people up on the Colony are always so eager to show off how accepting they are. 

"Yeah." 

He's curious, though. 

"How you know Eric?"

That, apparently, just makes Rovia suspicious, 'cause he's smirking like it's a dumb question. "School, and a small one at that." Shrugging, he rolls the bottle between his hands. "You read anything interesting?"

"You hear about Maggie?"

"Yeah... sucks."

 _Oh. Right._ Apparently, he hadn't heard all of it. 

"Nah, I mean. Yeah. It does. But she an' Glenn are havin' a kid."

Rovia's head snaps up, more animated than he's been since getting' down here. "No shit?"

"Yeah."

"Well hell, what's it they say, mazel tov?" He raises the bottle, then takes a swig before passing it over with enough vigor that it's quite possible the guy's looking to get drunk, and soon. 

He takes a pull, and passes it back. Ain't on him to babysit. He does sit on the floor, though, back against the nearest crate.

"You ever think about it?" Rovia asks, after a minute. "Having kids, settling down, all that stuff?"

He's not wearing socks with his boots. Doesn't seem worth pointing out. 

"Look around. This is about as settled as shit ever gets."

"I suppose."

"What about you?"

" _Really_ not seeing that in the cards either." Snorting, he shakes his head. But then he grins. "Probably for the best. Best case scenario, it's like, _hello, young human, welcome to the world, which is one good windstorm away from kicking explosives into our vents and killing us all_. You know?"

Daryl supposes he does now, at least. "Good motivation to get the shit fixed though."

"True." They fall quiet, for a few minutes, then Rovia laughs. He uncaps the bottle again, taking a drink

It ain't curiosity, but it ain't not, either. "What?"

"Nothing." Rovia's voice is tight as he winces down the whiskey. "Just being morbid."

Daryl glares at him. Ain't like he's got any better topics for conversation right now. 

Opening one eye, Rovia eventually squints down at him, a cough interrupting what must've been meant as a sigh. "Just. Either that, or you just say _fuck it_ and blow your head off, let 'em fend for themselves."

"Jesus fuck, man, give me that." 

Daryl doesn't give the bottle back when he's done. Rovia's too busy grimacing down at the floor to notice; his heels thudding dully against the crate. 

"Hey," he finds himself saying, "least you didn't inherit any of Gregory's bullshit, right?" 

"Suppose," Rovia rolls his shoulders into a stretch. "We start getting into the epigenetics of it all, though, we'll be here all night."

He nods, then cranes his neck to look at the clock readout on the wall. "You on shift tomorrow?"

"No. You?"

"Morning shift."

"Crap." Rovia blinks, than drops his feet down, swerving, slightly, to his feet. "I should probably get out of your hair then. And _you_ should get off the floor and go to sleep."

Daryl rolls his eyes, holding up the bottle. Despite their efforts, it's still two thirds full, but it still takes Rovia a moment to realize it's there. With a salute, Rovia's heading back towards the ladder, leaving Daryl to think.

Or whatever. His mind's a blank.


	12. Chapter 12

_Tuesday, 07/01/2194, 19:44_

"You sure you're up for it?" Sasha teases him, settling down at the table, rubbing her hands together and wrapping them around her mug. "I mean, that was a _nasty_ flu you had yesterday."

"Bottle flu, more like," Carl adds, helpfully. 

"I'm fine," Paul rolls his eyes, eagerly anticipating the day when everyone gets over it. "Just us tonight?"

"Mitch says to let him know when we're done with this one," Carl says, pulling from his pocket with the puzzle cube he'd dug up from some crevice or another during his explorations. It's weird. Makes him look younger than he is. "Said he'd start coming once we're onto something less 'infuriatingly inaccurate.' Think Connor was thinking the same."

"Dwight said he'll catch up tomorrow," Sasha adds, reaching back to the shelf and pulling the book down. "Who's going first?" 

She always asks, though regardless of who's shown up, it's usually Carl taking the first chapter. The later it gets, it seems, the harder it is for him to focus. Tonight, he doesn't even bother putting the puzzle down, he just

Not setting the puzzle down, Carl takes it from her, fidgeting one-handedly as he begins to read. 

\--- 

Now that Carl's sleep schedule, thrown so far off track thanks to the weeks spent in stasis, has evened out, the reading's going faster than it had been a week ago. Rotating like usual, they clear three chapters easily, and Paul's midway through the fourth when there's noise in the hallway. Daryl, from the sound of it, coming up from downstairs. 

Tonight, he's not stopping in his quarters, and he's not just passing through on his way to grab some water. Instead, he's sitting down on the floor, just inside the doorway, with a rag, a bottle of spray oil, and what looks to be a set of airlock hinges- presumably spares. 

Neither Sasha nor Carl say anything about the change in routine, and Paul doesn't stop his reading. The only thing that's different about tonight, it seems, is that when the chapter ends, Carl's reaching across the table for the book and continuing on to the next one, his cube forgotten on the table. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 07/03/2194, 07:30_

"How far are you?" Carl's leaning over Daryl's shoulder when Paul steps into the commons. 

"Chapter seven," Daryl grumbles, without looking up. "How far'd you guys get?"

"We're on fourteen." Looking at Paul, though probably only half on purpose, he says. "We could wait for you to catch up, if you want."

"They still all assholes in chapter fourteen?"

"Not _all_ of them. There's-"

Daryl shoots him a blank stone-faced look, and Carl slinks back to his own seat at the table, digging into his oatmeal and pointing Paul towards the kitchen with what might be a relieved expression on his face. "Spencer says to go ahead and break into the raisins if you want, but to make sure you close the bag, 'cause apparently it's possible for them to go stale." shovels a spoonful into his mouth, then continues. "Don't ask me how he knows that. Apparently it's a thing."

"Thanks for the warning," Paul says, scrounging up some tea while glaring at the kitchen calendar. They've got another five days before Spencer's going to open the next bag of coffee, and they're getting low. 

\--- 

_Monday, 07/07/2194, 08:18_

 

Fucking hell, today's off to a great start. Day four of tea instead of coffee, and now this. 

"Well," Daryl shrugs, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to point across the cargo bay. "Maybe you can help out with the hydro garden." 

The suggestion goes over about as well as he'd thought it would. 

"I'm just _saying_ , Carl argues, avoiding the distraction. "Those helmets cut out most of your peripheral vision anyway, you know? And I've had all the classes-"

"But you ain't been certified yet."

"That's my whole _point_ \- you and Dwight haven't been, either."

" _Carl_." 

" _What?_ " 

"Look." Daryl takes a breath, and glares down at the workbench. "Just. Take it up with Mitch or something, all right?"

Letting out a frustrated huff, Carl crosses his arms. "He said to talk to Sasha, and she said to talk to _you_."

"All right, fine, then I'm sayin' no."

" _Mitch_ didn't say no."

"Yeah, well, Mitch doesn't have to answer to your dad if something goes wrong." 

\--- 

Carl's slamming cupboards open as he pulls his breakfast together, so there's really no point in pretending that he hadn't heard the shouting or the crash from downstairs. And unfortunately, Sasha shows no signs of waking up to deal with the angry teen. 

Nobody else seems to be, either. Almost 7:30 and it's still just Paul in here. 

"You okay?"

Carl snorts, shaking his head without turning around. "I'm fine." 

"You're right, you know." Paul offers, carefully. "At least about part of it."

"Which part?"

"The part where neither of them are certified for zero-grav work yet. But that's just the thing- they're going to have enough trouble watching out for themselves. Might not be the worst idea to ease up on it until they know what they're dealing with, and try again later."

"Thanks for the advice," Carl says, flatly.

He raises his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying-"

"That I should just sit on my ass and wait for someone else to decide what I am and am not capable of doing?" 

"You know more about that than anyone else, and I'm not saying otherwise. There are other things that have to be taken into account, though."

"Like _what?_ "

"Age, experience, and the fact that like it or not, we are at least slightly responsible for ensuring your well-being?"

"So, same thing, different excuses," Carl shoves off of the counter, leaving his breakfast half-assembled as he stalks towards the door. "Gotcha."

Staring at Carl's half-assembled breakfast, Paul doesn't even begin to start processing exactly where things had gone off the rails before Daryl steps into the room. He looks irritated- with _him_ , apparently, if the glare's anything to go by. 

"Sorry, was just trying to help." He's already stepped on the landmine, he figures, and it's best not to test it by going into details. "Kind of backfired."

Daryl stares at him for a moment, his face losing none of its inscrutability, and just when Paul thinks he, too, is about to turn and leave, he smirks.

"Welcome to the club."

\--- 

_Monday, 07/07/2194, 19:35_

It's hard not to hear every goddamned thing on board the ship. Doesn't really matter much where it's coming from, it just bounces off the walls and down the hallway. 

Last night, he'd been trying to ignore the sounds of Spencer and Laura fucking. Now, he's listening to the pointed silence on the other side of Carl's door. Skipping dinner hasn't made him any less pissed off, apparently. 

After weighing the pros and cons of letting the kid sulk versus making an ass of himself and ordering him to sort out the shit he'd knocked over this morning, he lets it ride. 

Back in the commons, everyone's doing a pretty good job of pretending like they hadn't been eavesdropping on his failed attempt to extract Carl from his room; at least it stops them havin' to ask. 

"Guess book club's off for the night," Sasha announces, dropping her feet off the table leg and standing up. Fairly quickly, she and everyone else filters out, the couples retreating to their quarters for what will _hopefully_ be a quiet night in. He's about to head out himself- down to the cargo bay to sort the mess out- when he makes the mistake of noticing that Rovia hasn't moved. He's just sitting there at the table, staring off into space. Frozen, except for his thumb, riffling through the pages. 

If he'd just snuck out with the rest of the crowd, this wouldn't be his problem. 

But he hadn't. And now that he's aware of how eagerly everyone else had just fucked off and bailed, he's startlingly bloody-minded about the whole thing. So instead of turning on his heel and heading downstairs, he asks, "You good?"

"Yeah." Rovia blinks, sitting up in his seat, and smiles thinly. "Just trying to figure out what to do with myself."

"I hear that." It ain't like there are a ton of options on the best of days, but someone's wandered off with the vid drives. It would serve Carl right if they just continued on through the book without him, but it would be weird, just the two of them. There's still a decent amount of whiskey, which might help pass the time, but actually asking Rovia if he _wants_ to...

...yeah, _no_. 

Rovia's still looking at him, though, so he shrugs. "Y'could come down and help me sort out all the nuts and bolts I had to sweep off the goddamn floor."

He's joking, only he doesn't realize it until Rovia's shrugging and getting to his feet. 

\--- 

True to Daryl's word, there's half a crate of nuts, bolts and washers sitting on the workbench, along with their flimsy thinpack plastic boxes that haven't been folded back into shape yet.

"What the hell happened, anyway? Heard the crash..."

"He was storming out. Knocked into the broom on his way, it came down just right, sent everything flying. Damn shit went everywhere." Daryl gestures over towards the hydroponics rig, shaking his head before frowning at him. "Uh. It's cool if you got somethin' else you gotta be gettin' to."

"What, and miss out on all this fun? No thanks."

\--- 

Daryl's not the kind of guy who sits down and bullshits easily- at least not sober. Which would be fine, if Paul weren't so glaringly aware that that makes two of them. It takes him ten minutes to come up with anything to say at all. 

"So. Tell me about Earth. What are we getting ourselves into?"

Daryl grabs another handful from the bin, dropping them one by one into their proper containers. "Fucked if I know. It's all right, if you don't mind brownouts and bombing raids." 

"Sounds like you miss it."

Daryl clocks his smirk, and shrugs. "Miss the weather."

"Yeah? What's it like?" 

"It _exists_."

Paul's pretty sure that he's just been deemed an idiot for the second or third time in a day, but he'd walked right into that one. Of course he knows that the climate on Earth is variable. But people are either from the Colony or from Earth, and that's as far as the conversation's ever really needed to go. 

So far as he knows. 

"I mean, like, where you're from?"

"Oklahoma, originally." Daryl shrugs. "Moved to Georgia when I was a kid. Gets hot. Sometimes cold enough for snow. Least, it did."

 _Right_. 

He nods, though he can't honestly remember anything beyond the fact that they're both states in the US. Grade six had been a long time ago; he doesn't even know where they _are_ now. And for some reason, the thought of it is giving him vertigo. 

He's got no idea where they're going- not even the faintest clue. He's going to need to start studying up. 

"What?"

 _Where do I start_ , he almost asks, but it's too much to explain, where his head's trying to go. He drops another ½ inch screw into the bin, then remembers he hadn't checked the threading and rummages it back out. "Just. I've never been anywhere at all."

 _Now_ he's getting stared at like he's insane, as well as stupid. "Dunno if you noticed, but you've been 74 light years from Earth this whole time."

"Yeah, but...." he's not sure how to explain it; on top of that, he's distracted by the way Daryl says Earth instead of home, like the Earthers usually do. "That might be so, but until now, I've never been more than a few hundred meters away from where I was born."

Daryl pauses what he's doing. His focus is palpable, almost uncomfortable. After a moment, he snorts. "That _is_ fucking weird."

Slightly embarrassed, Paul shrugs, and changes the subject. "So why'd you come out to the Colony?"

"Weren't no reason to stay. Brother was shipping out, an' the fighting was getting' closer, so..." 

He grabs another handful of metal, and Paul follows suit, if only to give himself a minute to phrase his question as unobtrusively as possible. "You fight?"

Daryl laughs, a bit, so he's probably seen the question coming a mile away. "Little bit, when it got close and people started fucking shit up nearby. Never officially signed up." Three E-08 bolts fall into their thinpack box, clinking dully. "Most people didn't."

The conversation dries up, for a few more minutes. It's interrupted, finally, by a cut-off groan coming from upstairs- Laura, from the sound of it- that they're both probably pretending not to hear. Paul keeps his eyes trained on the task at hand, doing his best to ignore the low thrum of excitement settling into his spine. It's not as easy as it should be, despite the fact that he knows it's _Spencer_ up there with her. 

The momentary interruption does have the effect of prodding Daryl to talking, though, a fact for which Paul is pathetically grateful. Even if there's a stupid traitorous part of his brain that's aware of how tightly the jumpsuit's stretched across Daryl's shoulders-

"Might have to fight," Daryl's just said, and he's looking at him right now. "Depending on where we land."

Right, shit. _Focus_. 

He knows it's a possibility, if not a strong one. "The locations on the list are all under NATOPS control."

"If those clowns could control anything at all, the fightin' would've been done with two or three years ago." 

He's not sure what he's supposed to say to that. There's still this stupid part of him that wants to blithely ignore the fact. They can't change it, after all. "Worst case scenario, then?" He nods, answering his own question. "Yes, there's a chance I guess. But hopefully-" 

All he's got, he realizes, are a bunch of recycled assurances. The kind of thing the Council decrees so the business of the Colony can continue without interruption. 

And it's already been interrupted. 

"Well, we've got Connor, Mitch and Laura. They've gone through basic, have some experience, right?" He's not sure why he's trying to find the silver lining, but Daryl doesn't look like he's interested in the job. "And hey. I took two years of MMA in school, so. You know. Fists of fury, over here, you better watch out."

"Seriously?" Daryl screws up his face in disbelief, and the world rights itself again. 

"Yeah. So if any of those SA pricks start giving you any trouble, you can hide behind me."

"How long ago were these classes?"

"Never mind that."

"Uh-huh." Daryl fixes him with a patronizing look, which is interrupted by an astoundingly loud groan courtesy of Spencer.

Daryl's the first to crack, but only by a fraction of a second, and Connor's irritated shouts for everyone to shut the hell up and let him sleep only make it harder to stop laughing; it's not until Paul nearly sends the array of containers flying that either of them freeze. 

"He sounds like a goddamn _donkey_ ," Daryl mutters, once he's caught his breath, and for some reason- he doesn't really even know what one sounds like- that just sets them both off again.


	13. Chapter 13

_Thursday, 07/10/2194, 21:30_

"Wake up."

He opens his eyes to find Sasha grinning at him. 

"What're you-"

Behind her, Carl and Laura are sitting backwards on the chairs, staring at them; at the table, Dwight's got the vid player in about thirty pieces. 

He's not in his quarters, then. 

Daryl's awake in an instant, only sitting up isn't as easy as it should be, because he's got to shove Rovia off in the process. 

He's probably still asleep when he hits the book case on the other side of the bench, but his eyes fly open, wide and dazed. After a few seconds, he frowns, twisting to drag his feet up on the bench- kicking Daryl in the process- and burying his head in his arms. 

"I was _sleeping_ , and I'm going _back_ to sleep, and you're all bastards."

It's muffled, but emphatic. 

"You've already been passed out for like an _hour_."

Rovia raises one arm, and then one finger, and Daryl's pretty sure he's never agreed with a sentiment more wholeheartedly in his life. 

He blinks, and tries to swallow, but his throat's dry. He gets to his feet instead, stretching his arms over his head. He's stiff as hell. "The fuck happened?"

"Middle of a sentence, you just passed out," Sasha says. "Then we realized Paul already _had_ been, so we let you sleep for a while."

"Went looking for a camera," Carl adds. "But Dwight wouldn't let us break out the helmet cams." 

"Don't try dragging me into this weird shit," Dwight mutters, packing his components into a bin and smirking up at Daryl. "You're welcome, by the way."

Daryl nods his thanks, and leaves, too tired to try processing any of this. Except, apparently, for the suspicion that Rovia's back is going to be a mess when he actually does manage to get up. 

Whatever. Ain't his problem.

\---

 _Thursday, 07/10/2194, 21:34_

He's going back to sleep. Failing that, he's going to stay here, like this, until everyone _else_ does. 

His arm's colder than it had been a minute ago, and this bench isn't all that comfortable, now that he thinks about it. 

But he's not thinking about it. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 07/12/2194, 12:15_

Space is fucking _big_. 

Daryl knows this- he's _known_ this- but. 

_But_. 

Even with the helmet, seeing it opening up on all sides? Above and underneath because there's nothing to _stand_ on? It's different.

Daryl's not entirely sure that he likes it. And he ain't sure how he's gonna get to the point where Mitch and Laura are: comfortably drifting, checking in over the radio, reminding each other about the tether lines like they're nothing more than an afterthought. 

"You doin' all right, Dixon? Not getting dizzy?"

"I'm good," Daryl shakes himself, twists- not as effectively as he'd like- to face the side of the ship, which isn't, Connor's assured him, moving. At least not as much as it appears to be. 

It's something to focus on, though, something solid and more or less _fixed_ , unlike the incomprehensible scattering of stars and nothingness at his back. The vertigo- he hadn't even noticed it- gradually starts to subside. 

"All right," Connor's on the earpiece, loud and close though he's ten meters out, spotting him and Laura. "You ready to run through it?"

Ignoring the amusement in Connor's voice, he takes a breath, and nods. Remembers that nobody'll see it through the back of his helmet. "Yeah."

"Okay. Find somewhere to grab hold, and start your checks."

Just as his gloves are making contact with the airlock frame, he's nudged out of the way. There's not much force, but it's enough to have him drifting- too far, and too fast- away from the airlock. He scrambles, ineffectively, and _finally_ , after what seems like far too long, manages to get a hold of solid metal.

"Good," Laura says in his ear, but it turns out, she's right next to him, barely gripping the airlock frame with her left hand. Her right, he thinks, might be giving him a thumbs up. "That's the first thing. You need to stay oriented, out here. Don't worry. We'll be getting you some more practice."

"I know, Mitch warned me."

"Okay, well, why don't you contact the bridge and chew him out for spoiling my fun, then?" 

He manages, clumsily, to drag his thumb down against the back of his pinky, switching channels.

"Bridge, this is Daryl, you copy?"

"Loud and clear," Mitch responds. "Good. All right, you're starting in on the checks now. Start with life support, then...?" 

"Comms," he confirms. _That_ much, at least, he's got down. "And then lines and mobility. Got it." 

\--- 

"Think he's going to puke?"

"It's fifty-fifty the first time," Sasha tells Carl, "And Dwight's been okay so far, so..." Straightening up, she turns to Paul. "Keep an eye on that line, you don't want to let it feed out too much."

Now that they've stopped, the stars are visible again, which is surreal enough on its own, but the occasional sight of people drifting by outside is unsettling. _Not_ half as unsettling as every thing that could possibly go wrong with the tethers, though.

Sasha checks in on comms- Spencer's the one who answers, since Mitch is talking to Daryl as he puts his kickboard through his paces, but from the sounds of it, everything's going okay. 

"Think _I'm_ gonna puke," Carl adds, after a few minutes, turning away from the window to lean against the wall. "Too...whatever, with the stars and everything."

"Yeah, that happens. Get away from the window, it'll help. How about you take over for a minute here? I gotta run upstairs for a second."

"Sure thing." He shoves off from the wall and moves closer to the rig, accepting the earpiece she gives him. Maneuvering the control rig up a few inches- a feature Paul hadn't thought to look for- he settles into place.

"You do this often?" Paul thinks he knows the answer already- the training's been for his and Spencer's benefit, more than anything else. 

"Few times," Carl shrugs. "Not, like, out here. But helped my dad's crew out a few times back home."

"It doesn't freak you out?"

"Not really. I mean, on a haul-in, there's more chance of a swingout at the fulcrum point, but it ain't like there's windstorms or anything, so. Just have to stay on top of it, and listen to what they're tellin' you over the line."

As if on cue, Connor orders another five meters of slack on Daryl's line. 

"Half the time," Carl feeds out the tether, waits for confirmation. "They end up overriding for automatic feed, so you just sit around watching."

"Only as a last resort," Connor points out. 

Someone- probably Daryl, given the way Carl smirks in response- snorts. "Yeah. Sure."

"Regardless of how things were done on the Techniki side, that's how we operate out here. Is that understood?"

"Understood," Carl and Daryl say, nearly in unison. But they're rolling their eyes, like they know better. It's strangely reassuring.

\--- 

_Tuesday, 07/15/2194, 22:05_

"Want me to take a look at it?"

Dwight drops the interior relay box down on the workbench with an exhausted flourish. "I can't say I like your chances, but you have my sympathies." 

Daryl picks it up; Dwight's already got the housing off, and from a hardware perspective, everything looks all right. "Laura say anything more about it?"

"Only that it's been acting funny ever since we went out there, and that it's been trying to latch onto empty channels a few times a day." 

Only what she'd said at dinner, then. 

"Rovia was freaking out about it when I went up there, though. White-knuckling it like he was sure all this meant we were going to explode at any minute." Dwight snorts. 

He drops a few screws on the bench's magnetized strip and shrugs. " _Engineers_ , man. One blinking 'check connection' light and it's the end of the world." 

"You talk like this about everyone you sleep with?"

He doesn't take the bait. It's just how people talk. Abe'd been like that. Bob too, sometimes. Merle too- _all_ the time. "Fuck off." 

"I get it, I get it. It's not serious." Dwight makes a face that Daryl doesn't give him the satisfaction of noticing. "So is it like a long-trip-on-a-small-ship sorta thing, or more Stockholm Syndrome?"

"Stockholm's gone," Daryl mutters, determinedly only half listening. Dwight'll tire himself out soon enough. "Gonna need another name for it." 

Everything on the outside of the unit- even with the housing taken off- looks fine. No signs of moisture, cracking or corrosion. The contact points are clear. Just the usual mess of chips and too-small wires, too densely packed to see underneath the shitty overhead light. Snagging his headlamp from the hook, he takes a closer look. "We weren't anywhere near the external sensors the other day, were we?"

At least Dwight ain't so full of shit that he can't get his focus where it ought to be. "Not unless you made it all the way 'round when you were out there."

He hadn't. "Nah. Still might wanna look at the external connections though."

"Connor wants us to winnow out the internal options first, 'cause we've still got time, but yeah. We still got that spare in inventory, yeah?"

Daryl nods, gesturing over his shoulder; the beam of the light streaks across the workbench. "Should be over there. Second or third one down." 

He's just getting back to work when when the noise deafens him. Sharp metallic pounding, grinding to a shuddering roar as he's thrown violently to the left. 

Everything's bright- the emergency lights are flashing, the alert's blaring over the top of everything- and he _just_ manages to keep his footing as he slams into the wall. 

Under the strobing lights, it's hard to make out what's going on, and even longer to make sense of it. 

The lockdown crates ain't all locked down. And Dwight's sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.


	14. Chapter 14

_Tuesday, 07/15/2194, 22:10_

_"What's going on?"_ Connor's voice cuts through the noise; he's suddenly right there, climbing into the seat next to his and flipping switches. 

"I don't-" he can't even _hear_ himself. He reaches for the control panel, tries to find the button to make everything stop.

There's no such button -it's a stupid thing to have to remember- but suddenly, his control panel goes dark; next to him, Connor's taken over, working them furiously, reaching up to punch buttons overhead that Paul really should've-

 _"Paul!"_

Connor's shouting is the loudest thing here, rising over the alarm-

The alarm's cut out. 

No, not cut. Just quieter, but leaving his head spinning all the same. 

The lights are still flashing, but he closes his eyes.

"I don't know what happened."

"Anything on the sensors?"

"I didn't see-"

"Did you _look?_ "

"Yeah, I-"

He can't remember. Over on Connor's screen, the shipwide diagnostics is running. There's red where there should be green, there's a hand waving in front of his face, and shouting downstairs, and a tinny voice sounding angry and-

"All right," Connor says loudly, and this time it's his voice echoing over the comms. "This is Connor on the bridge, we're slowing down. All crew, report your status."

Laura's first, then Mitch, then Spencer then Sasha then Carl who's shouting from the corridor. Their sounding off is as much of a break as he's probably going to get, so Paul uses it to breathe. 

Then Daryl says, "Dwight's down, I'm moving him to the medbay."

"Mitch, help him out and report back in five. Sasha and Laura, report to the bridge. Carl, Spencer, keep the walkways clear. " Connor lets out a deep breath, then punches into comms again. "We're okay. We're not venting, we've got power, but I'm cutting the engines." 

Paul moves to get up, but hesitates. He's being dismissed, but he hasn't _been_ dismissed, and he's not sure what he's supposed to-

"All right," Connor finally glances over at him, shoots him a grin that's probably supposed to be more bracing than it is. "Shit happens, all right? You good?"

His face is numb. He'd probably nod at anything right now. 

"Wait for me down in the commons, I'll circle back in a few. In the meantime, it's going to be a long night. You mind making some coffee?"

\---

 _Tuesday, 07/15/2194, 22:17_

"Dwight's all right for now," Mitch is calling up to the bridge; when Paul pokes his head out from the kitchen he can see his hand fingers hanging onto the common room's door frame. "Just dazed, and his ankle's messed up. Conscious, and surly as hell, but we should get him under the scanner ASAP. How's it looking?"

"Hard to say. Sensors are all over the place down there."

"We hit something?"

"We shouldn't have," Laura frowns, rubbing her hands together, just as Connor confirms it. 

Paul ducks back into the kitchen, busying himself with the coffee- it's already finished- and tries to think. He hadn't _seen anything_. 

Shipwide comms opens up, and Connor announces, "Dwight, you hang tight for a few, we'll get someone down there in a minute. Everyone else, report to the commons immediately."

Paul ducks into the washroom before the room can fill up. He doesn't need to use it for anything besides its closed door. 

Once inside, the tight space isn't as comforting as he'd thought it would be, and his reflection in the polished steel mirror under the isn't doing him any favors. The alarms, he's just now realizing, have been shut off for a while now. Same goes for the alarms. 

It's just his hands gripping the sink and his slack face staring back at him idiotically. 

He can hear everyone filtering into the common room, so he washes his hands quickly, then rubs them over his face, puling his beard into shape as if it'll make him look more sane and capable than he's currently feeling. 

It probably won't trick anyone, but he does what he can. Laura pours him some coffee, and smiles at him when he takes it. 

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just..." he shrugs. 

"First alarm is rough. But this isn't major. You did everything right, okay?"

He doesn't ask her how she's so certain. Just wraps his hands more tightly around his coffee cup. 

"All right," Connor announces, once he's poured himself some coffee. "Here's where we're at. My first guess is that we're looking at a jump shielding failure." 

Spencer's eyes slide towards Paul in accusation; Paul looks down quickly. "And nobody saw it coming?"

"Well, everything was working, right up until it wasn't." There's a long enough pause that Paul thinks he should probably look up again; when he does, Connor's glancing away. "There's also the possibility that some road gravel, so to speak, got kicked up under the chassis." 

Paul still can't remember seeing a _thing_. 

Carl raises his hand, looking worried. "How's that happen?"

Paul should know this. He'd signed off on every upgrade, every retrofit. But he can't get his mouth to move. Instead, Laura fields the question. 

"If a bit of debris is small enough, and hits in at the right angle, there's a chance it'll actually ricochet back though another part of the field. Kind of edge in sideways. If it's close enough when it happens, the sensors won't register it as being external."

"It's small and slowed down enough, by that point, that it really doesn't do much damage," Mitch adds, reassuringly.

"Unless it gets into the jump drive," Spencer steps into Paul's space, swatting him lightly on the arm. "My _compliments_ to the engineers."

"You're welcome," Paul bites back, shifting forward almost without meaning to; as soon as he does, Connor's edging in between them. On his left, Daryl and Laura have moved in closer, and on the right, so have Dwight and Mitch. And they all look pissed. 

"You guys good? Or are you really that intent on embarrassing yourselves?"

He takes a breath- startled, more than anything, about how quickly he'd gone from numb to furious- and nods. Past Connor's shoulder, Spencer's doing the same. 

Connor turns away, hiding his smirk behind his mug as he sips his coffee, and addresses the group as if nothing had happened. 

"Obviously, tensions are running a bit high, so let's just keep in mind that we're actually all right, here. We've got power, life support, and there's no hull breach. We _do_ , however, have thirteen diagnostic alerts requiring our attention. So here's the plan: Sasha, you go down and see to Dwight. We might need him on diagnostics sooner rather than later, but we need to clear him, first. Daryl, you're outside with me. Mitch, Laura, I need you up on bridge, so drink up and get back up there." Laura hadn't even bothered with the coffee, but Mitch starts throwing back the still-steaming contents of his mug with a look either pained or determined. Probably both. "As far as the tethers go-"

"Put Carl on." Daryl interrupts, pausing as he becomes aware that he's speaking out of turn. His eyes dart around the room nervously, glancing off Spencer and Paul in turn clearly wary of the prospect of the two of them working the lines together right now. "No offense, but he's got more experience."

Carl had straightened up and shaken the hair out of his face the moment his name'd been mentioned, and he's already nodding when Connor turns to ask him if he's up for it. 

"Yes sir." 

"All right." Connor is weighing his options, but at least he's quick about it. "You and Spencer, then. Paul, I want you down in the hold with the inventory. We need any parts or gear, I don't want to waste a whole lot of time waiting for it to be found, so stay on comms."

"Will do." 

"All right. I want us out ready to go in fifteen, so everyone, slam your coffee and let's get this over with."

\--- 

"Follow my lead," Connor says, and begins maneuver his way along the side of the ship, his kickboard running on low, probably to allow Daryl to keep up. 

If he wanted to- if he _let_ himself- he could reach out to catch hold of the hull almost at any time. If he planted his feet and jumped, he'd be at the end of his tether's reach within a minute. If he hit the controls just right, the kickboard would drive him out of the jump lane in half a heartbeat. 

And if he got distracted, he might just forget all of this. 

Daryl spends most of the trip making sure he doesn't. Instead, he focuses on keeping his pace steady and following Connor, so much so that he doesn't even realize that they've ducked underneath the nose of the ship until they've already done it. 

_Under _is a relative turn, out here.__

__When Connor calls for another ten meters of slack, Daryl does the same. Without gravity, the line feels mushy- almost elastic- compared to what he's used to back on the Colony. There's no sense of extra weight, just a slight pull. It's enough that he has to use the kickboard to course-correct, but it's starting to feel natural._ _

__"You ever get up close under one of these before?" Connor's voice is in his ear; he's already got the first of his belt anchors planted and engaged against the hull."_ _

__He shakes his head, which does nothing to move his helmet. "Not really." Not even in the hangar, really. It strikes him that he doesn't even know what the ship looks like, from the front. "Looked at schematics, mostly." He has to concentrate to make sure that it's the anchor he's planting, and not the tool box he's accidentally disconnecting, as he settles into place on top of- underneath?- the ship._ _

__"That's all right. _Broken_ is somewhat of a universal state, so just keep an eye out for anything that looks wrong." A switch is thrown, somewhere on the comms system, and the bridge chime comes through, startlingly loud. "All right, Laura? Mitch? What're we looking at first?"_ _

__\---_ _

__"Daryl, you're down to seventy percent," Laura announces, as they plant their boots and start examining the the jump drive's outer ring. "Connor, you're at 78. Drive shielding is disconnected, you can go ahead."_ _

__"Understood." Connor shines his torch down into the meter-wide ring; the light refracts wildly enough that it takes a minute to differentiate between the shielding transmitter ring and the drive ring itself._ _

__Daryl shifts to the left; from this angle, the glare ain't so bad; he spots the issue almost immediately._ _

__"Look. There."_ _

__One of the drive modules is unseated from its space in the ring, wires snagged against wires; the bracket underneath is twisted and bent._ _

__Connor gives the thumbs up to show that he's seeing it too. "Think that's the cause, or the result?"_ _

__"Dunno. Something could've knocked it, or the bracket could've just given out." Either way, the fix should be easy enough- he hadn't noticed any brackets lying around, but he's got the metalworking equipment in the hold if it comes down to it._ _

__He resets his anchors- this time, the one at his waist, too, to more or less keep him lying on the hull as he works. Removing the damaged module would be a thirty second job, if not for the gloves, and the angles, and the dozen or so implements strapped and tethered to the tool apron on his chest. Cutting the wires without pulling anything else out of place, and extracting the bolts without losing them takes almost ten minutes, even with the extra space afforded him thanks to the broken bracket. But finally, he's got the module secured in the bag attached to his hip, and he can begin the ridiculously complicated procedure of standing up._ _

__Connor taps Daryl's arm; that's about as much control as they can exert over their tablets out here, but it's enough to wake the screen. "Bridge, bounce the schematic for the module ring to Daryl's tablet. Think we found the issue, I just want to make sure we're not missing something obvious."_ _

__"Bringing it up now, just a sec," Laura replies. "Hang tight."_ _

__"Also, be advised, I'm going up into the ring to check for debris, so if anyone is looking for a promotion, engage the engines in the next few minutes."_ _

__"Our credits are still getting direct deposited?" Mitch jokes._ _

__"Pretty sure we've been cut off," Laura points out. "Might as well let him live."_ _

__Connor disengages his anchors and gets a grip on the edge of the ring, well clear of the shield array. Does a handstand, for a moment, then pulls himself down- or up, really- into the drive's intake. He's only got three, maybe four feet before it narrows to nearly nothing._ _

__Daryl has to undo his left anchor and swing out, carefully- to avoid getting kicked._ _

__It's irritating, and then it's just stars, in front of him, going seemingly dim as his tablet flashes bright on his arm._ _

__"Got it," he confirms, squinting to make sense of the too-small print. "Zoom in on the module ring, I need to take a look at the brackets."_ _

__"Zooming in."_ _

__The image doesn't give him much that he doesn't already know. "Is there an X-diagram for the brackets?"_ _

__"Individual, or the whole ring?"_ _

__"Whatever you got."_ _

__"Hang on a sec." His screen starts to bounce out, back to the menu, as the bridge pokes around. It's hard to track, so resets his anchor and cranes neck to see how Connor's doing. He can't see much beyond the torchlight bouncing off hundreds of polished metal surfaces, brighter than the stars._ _

__He pulls himself back and resets his anchor. "Connor, you good?"_ _

__"Yeah. You want to check the lines?"_ _

__"We're good," Daryl confirms, and shifts the apron out of the way; he almost doesn't see the foot coming._ _

__It's moving slow, though, and just nudges his helmet. It's the softest kick to the head he's ever taken, but he moves with it, and it takes a moment to realize that the anchors are doing their job._ _

__He waits until he's sure he can keep his voice steady. "Mind your feet, yeah?"_ _

__"You're gonna have an easier time of it that I am," Connor points out, then lets out a huff._ _

__"Got something?"_ _

__"Not sure... Yeah, there's a. Hang on."_ _

__Connor moves slowly; there's not much space to get around, in there, and he has to pull back out, momentarily, to rotate his shoulder. Once he's back out, he lets himself drift, for a moment, as he undoes the straps for his kickboard rig, which he holds out._ _

__"Hang onto this a minute, make sure it doesn't catch on anything. It's tight in there."_ _

__The rig's still attached to Connor's belt, but that only makes it more awkward, not less as he dives back down._ _

__"Think I've got something... yeah. Shit. Looks like something cut through the filter. I'm going to pop it off; pass me the driver?"_ _

__"Hang on..." It takes a minute to undo the velcro keeping the driver strapped down, and another one just to undo the clip. "All right, passing it up on your left."_ _

__"Rovia, you there?"_ _

__There's a delay, and then an affirmative. "Yeah, what do you need?"_ _

__"Drive module might be fucked, and the bracket definitely is. We got any spares lying around?"_ _

__There's a pause before he replies, long enough that Daryl know's he's not going to like the answer. "Bracket, yeah. Module, I'm still looking, but there's nothing on the inventory."_ _

__"Okay. We'll need to test the module, then, at least. What about the filter?"_ _

__"We're good there."_ _

__"All right. Grab one of those as well."_ _

__"Will do. Seeing anything else yet?" Rovia asks, just as a satisfied "Ah- _ha_ " drowns him out. _ _

__"Got it," Connor says._ _

__"Down on your left," Daryl says; the bracket piece is laughably small, for all the chaos it had caused. But it's also only a third of it. They're still missing a part. "You see anything else in there?"_ _

__"Bad news is, it made it into the engine. Good news is, it's on the other side of the hull membrane. We'll have to get at it from inside."_ _

__"All right," Mitch announces. "Sensors still reading that the magnet's been removed, and there's still the internal alerts, but other than that, everything's showing as resolved on our end. You get everything?"_ _

__"That we did," Connor says, letting out a heavy sigh. "Working my way back out. We'll be heading in in just a second."_ _

__"You're clear," Daryl says, backing out of the way again, giving him room to move. As Connor eases out feet first, his rig gets caught up in the opening; his feet swing out, nudging Daryl in the chest as he passes._ _

__He's ready for it, this time. It's fine._ _

__This is what he's thinking when he catches it in his peripheral. The flashing yellow light on the inside of Connor's helmet._ _

__\---_ _

___Shit._ _ _

__" _Connor, your suit_ -"_ _

__"I know, Mitch. On it." He sounds irritated, on the verge of bored as he re-anchors himself next to Daryl. "Glove. Think I snagged it taking the kickrig off."_ _

__Daryl grabs him, spinning him to get a better angle, and catches his arm between his gloved hands. At least it's a slow leak; there's time yet._ _

__It's clumsy work, bracing along the seal and twisting. And it's hard. Doesn't seem to be moving at all._ _

__"Bridge, anything?" The sealsuit light's still blinking. A little faster now, but still yellow. Inside his helmet, Connor looks dazed, more than anything. He looks like he's about to pass out._ _

__"Carl," Daryl says, unable to keep looking up at Connor. "Full haul, no anchors. Ten count, then start. I'm steering us both."_ _

__"Copy that. Standard rate?"_ _

___Double it_ he wants to say, but he's going to be fighting momentum, and with only one kickboard for the both of them, they're going to be off-balance enough as it is. "Yeah."_ _

__Clipping their lines together, he makes quick work of their anchors, and sets his footing in preparation for the step, but it still takes a few seconds- a few long, cold seconds- to feel the pull, and to actually _take_ it. _ _

__Connor's kickboard is floating behind them, but there's no time to secure it, they need to get _back_ , and he's only got a few seconds to get ahead of the swingout. _ _

__If he times it just right, they'll slide in easy as anything, all their tangled gear following their momentum into the airlock. Worst case scenario, they'll overshoot, hit the side, then get dragged into the airlock. He'll have to scramble the slack lines back in, the tethers and their gear, before the doors can close for repressurization._ _

__This is what he's thinking as he rotates his wrist, getting his hand in position for the kickboard controls. There are people shouting on the line; he can't hear any of them and just _speaks_ , hoping like hell someone's listening in all that racket. As soon as he feels the first hint outward pull- the fulcrum point swingout- he engages, redirects them as best he can. "Carl, drop to half." _ _

__He feels the line relent, just a bit, and cuts the controls, dropping the kickboard to get a better grip on Connor, who's just conscious enough or confused enough or _fucked up enough_ to try fighting him._ _

__He's aware that he's shouting. He doesn't know if Connor hears him, but he manages to interlock their elbows tightly enough to make up for the three feet of slack their clips allow. If he's going to grab the edge, he's going to do it with one arm._ _

__He takes a breath, keeping his focus on the airlock frame as it draws near and reaches out._ _

__Connor's arm strikes out too; he's awake. He's trying to help. But the sudden movement means that his other arm is rotating out from under Daryl's armlock; the moment he's free, he kicks, hitting Daryl in the side and sending him back- sending them _both_ drifting back out-_ _

__But the line's still hauling, and Daryl's mostly inside, his hip and knee wedged against something that feels sturdy enough._ _

__"Stop the haul, I need two feet!"_ _

__He's grabbing at lines, and then he's grabbing at straps, and _finally_ , he's got a good enough hold to actually work Connor around the corner, and then they're both falling in. Connor's got his hands pressed up against the wall, right next to the control panel; Daryl hauls in the last of the lines- one of the kickboards is caught on the edge, and _finally_ shoves himself back against the wall to slam the pressurization controls._ _

__Only when the door is sliding shut- does he realize that the steady red light on the wall next to Connor's helmet is actually a reflection._ _

__The realization of what that means sets in a full second before the gravity does._ _


	15. Chapter 15

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 00:02_

"The slingshot?" Spencer sighs through his nose. "That seems fucked up."

"Less fucked up than ordering anyone to suit up right now," Mitch says, firmly. 

"We could put him in stasis," Paul suggests.

He knows he's just trying to offer something up against the inevitable, and that everyone else knows it too, but it still stings when no one else bothers to reply. He should probably just be satisfied enough with the fact that they're letting him stand here, with them, while they're having this conversation. 

Sasha and Dwight are coming up the steps; everyone starts watching the commons door, eager for any momentary distraction. Laura's voice, when they finally do arrive, has a forced, cheerful lilt to it.

"How's the boot working out?" 

"Awkward." Thin-skinned enough that it's very possible he's under-medicated, Dwight sits down at the table and pours himself half a cup of still-warm coffee. He looks up at Mitch, then Laura, then Sasha, like he doesn't quite know where his attention needs to land. "Think I figured out what happened. Maybe. I mean. Looks like a bit of sleeve lining might've gotten caught up in the cuff seal. If it wasn't seated properly, it could've caused the leak."

Laura frowns. "That rapid a depressurization, though?"

"It probably would've been fine, or close enough," Dwight allows. "The thing was half off when I looked at it. I'm guessing he caught it on something, broke the seal the rest of the way."

A few eyes dart towards Daryl, but he doesn't look up from chewing on his thumbnail to confirm anything. It's a full minute before Paul stops waiting for him too, though. 

Mitch is the first to break the new silence that's settled over the room. "Is the suit still intact?"

"No sealant release that I could see, so I think so. Should probably run a pressure test in the morning." There's a long pause as he downs his coffee. This time, when he glances up, he's surveying everyone in turn. "If people want, I can, ah, head back down and get him sorted. It's kind of...."

"Thanks, but no." Sasha and Mitch exchange a look before she continues. "Here's the plan. If anyone wants to pay their final respects, you've got an hour. At that time, Mitch and I will coordinate his release."

"In the meantime," Mitch adds, "I'm ordering an eighteen hour stand down. We all need time to process and rest. We'll get back to work on the jump drive in the morning, and once that's sorted, we'll all sit down and talk about what our next steps will be." 

\---

In the moments before the wind had whipped him too far from the membrane wall to retrieve, Merle had looked surprised, angry, and mostly just _frozen_. Like he'd been halfway through a bottle and a rant, and had forgotten where he was. Like any minute he'd snap out of it and start yellin' again. 

Connor's different. Just looks _dead_ , definitely and irrefutably. The whites of his eyes have gone burst-blood-vessel red, and his face is slack, the muscles underneath already forgetting what he's supposed to look like. 

At least Merle'd still looked like _himself_ , at the end. 

It's fucked up, the effort that they'd gone to haul Connor in here, only to be turning around to launch him back out through the airlock. Even more fucked up, maybe, to strip him out of the sealsuit, down to his stained thermals, to put him on display in the meantime. But it's probably _most_ fucked up, then, that the only real reason he'd come down here to notice all this in the first place was to grab some anaprox out of the cabinet. 

\--- 

On her way out of the medbay, Sasha hesitates on the threshold. "What're you up to?

"Testing the drive module connections," Daryl says. "Housing's scratched, otherwise looks all right so far."

"You're supposed to be standing down."

A few weeks ago- before all this- it might've been easier. A few weeks ago, she would've been elbow deep in stripped machinery, right there next to him. But now, she's standing in the doorway, trying not to look at the sealsuit that's heaped up on the crate next to the workbench. 

"Ain't like we really got a choice until we know this is fixed, so..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He wants to ask her what it's like, having to take on Rick's job, making sure everyone and everything is functioning properly. "You all right?"

"Think so. Hasn't really hit. Guess we'll see what tomorrow brings."

He gets it, but doesn't know what to _say_ about it, so he doesn't say anything. Turning towards the steps, she looks almost relieved. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 01:15_

Despite Sasha and Mitch's announcement, everyone is loitering in the lower corridor between the medbay and the cargo bay airlock. 

Mitch still hasn't lost the dazed look he'd been wearing up in the commons- he seems to be operating on autopilot- but it's clear that Laura's been crying. Next to her Spencer keeps fidgeting, like he doesn't know how much space he should be giving her. 

And Paul's just standing next to the comms box, turning into Gregory. He's pretty sure Sasha's going to wind up in charge of everything that isn't the bridge itself. That, no doubt, will be best left to their two remaining pilots. And while it's a little twisted to be thinking about the chain of command- with a crew this small, it's not something that's been an overt concern until today- it feels necessary.

And it gives him an excuse to see, but not really notice, Sasha and Daryl hefting Connor's body onto a cart. They're wheeling it out of the medbay, past their numb little gathering, and over to the hold's airlock. 

Of the lot of them, Carl's the most curious, taking a few steps forward to get a better view of the adjustments Dwight's making to the slingshot runner he's pulled up out of the floor.

_Slingshot_ is a fucked up word to be using. They're not jettisoning compacted waste or launching research probes into an unexplored planet's atmosphere, they're laying Connor to rest. 

Well, to drift. Hopefully peacefully. 

He's not really sure of the physics of it; Dale had been in charge of dealing with the airlocks during the RV's retrofitting. When the RV's in motion, even at the slow speed they drop down to in order to reduce wear on the airlock mechanism, the depressurization of the airlock is enough to jettison the package away from the ship. With the ship being still- _dead in the water_ is a term that he can't help using right now- the depressurization may or may not be enough to propel Connor clear of the ship. 

He's only ever seen it used when they've come down out of jump speed, never when the RV is still. Once the airlock is depressurized and open to the outside, the slingshot will give Connor a nudge- at about one tenth the force that it's usually set to- that will, ideally, propel him away from the RV.

It's as dignified a funeral as they can manage, he supposes. All the same, it's probably for the best that there are no real windows down here. 

The inner airlock door is open; Dwight and Mitch are blocking their view of Sasha and Daryl getting Connor situated on the runner. But gradually, Mitch backs away, then Dwight, more slowly, making room for Sasha and Daryl to come back inside. 

They shut the door behind them, their faces grim. 

"Anyone want to say a few words?" Mitch eventually says, his voice tight; he clears his throat. "I don't know any prayers or anything."

Nobody volunteers. For a second, he thinks he should try, maybe, but he can't think of anything at all. From where he's standing, it's hard not to notice Connor's sealsuit lying in a heap on the workbench. Chances are, it's there, and they're _here_ , because of Paul. 

So he keeps his mouth shut. Tries not to breathe too heavily. 

But Sasha's taking a deep breath, holding herself up straighter. 

"I only knew Connor a short while, but I know that he was a good captain and a good man. Without him, this whole endeavor would not be possible. And I don't want to put words in his mouth, but I have to assume that he would want us not just to carry on, but to succeed. The fact that he won't be here with us when we do doesn't diminish him or the hard work he put in." She takes a shaking breath. "I'm sorry I'm going to miss him, but I'm glad I got to know him." It's not until she looks over at Laura that Paul realizes that she's losing her composure; the rest of her words fall out in a rough tumble. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

Nobody else does either.


	16. Chapter 16

"Got anything on the grounding?"

"Trying to get a contact point," Carl says, down in the subfloor access. "Hang on," then, a minute later, "no, it's fine."

"All right, cool. Come on up." Daryl stands up and steps back, giving Carl room to maneuver; once he's out, they slide the cover back into place and replace the bolts. Carl heads into the cargo bay to start putting the equipment away, while Daryl drags the steps back down. Once they're locked back into place, he hits the comms unit on the wall, going shipwide. 

"Yo Mitch, testing's done. All clear." He considers adding that the ladder's back down, but just because the lower level is accessible again, it doesn't mean he's looking to _invite_ anyone just yet. Hell, if Carl hadn't been so blatantly awkward and out of place with everyone upstairs, he would've just done it solo. 

He watches him put the testing leads in the wrong drawer, and after a moment the comms unit chimes back. "Understood. Come on up and we'll start talking about heading out."

"You need me for anything else?" Carl asks hopefully, rocking forward on his feet. 

Getting him down here was a good idea, in the end. He's skinnier, and he doesn't have his foot stuck in a boot. And, hell, doing anything at all is probably better than hanging out in the quiet-as-a-morgue common room. 

"Just updating the job queue." Daryl presses _update_ and, reluctantly, puts the tablet to sleep. And now there's no excuse not to head back upstairs. "I'm heading up. You coming?"

"Too wired." Gonna get on the bike for a while."

It sounds like a lie- by his own admission, Carl had only slept an hour or two- but he nods, and leaves him to it. 

\---

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 13:03_

The blanket over the window is starting to slip out of place, but any attempts to fix it will most likely bring the whole thing down, and he doesn't want to look outside right now. 

He knows that Connor's not floating right outside. Daryl had checked last night before they'd all turned in, and had reported that he'd passed out of visual range. That hadn't stopped Paul from thinking about it- from being glaringly _aware_ that Connor's dead body was moving, moment by moment, away. Out of the lane, and into deep space, never to be seen again.

It's not as if they'd been particularly close. But for the past several weeks, he'd been no more than a hundred and twenty feet away at the very most. 

He's gone, now. 

And Paul's just _lying_ here, staring at the stupid little ornament hung from the underside of the top bunk as an afterthought. Because as long as he's focused on _that_ , everything's fine. 

He'd fidgeted it together while listening to Carl reading about the exploration of Mars, weaving junk wires in and out of bolts until it resembled a sphere. It's ugly, and he hadn't even meant on keeping it. But the purple and yellow and red and orange wires are something to look at, in the uniform drab of his bunk. 

He'd had art on the walls, back home. Too expensive to ship from Earth, most of it was from the annual art fair that used to be held on the strip. His favorite- by Amira, who'd later matriculated into the Records Unit- had been a picture of her grandmother's house in New Mexico. She'd sold it for nearly nothing, irritated that she hadn't been able to get the color of the house the way she'd wanted. That it was too bright, too orange, too unreal. It had been the sky behind it, though- bright turquoise fading into pink and gray and purple clouds- that had caught his eye. Those, according to Amira, had been accurate. 

A picture of a house he's never seen, belonging to a woman he's never met, on a planet he's never been to. It's a stupid thing to be missing this badly, but right now, he does.

He should get up, though. Go out there and actually listen to the plans Mitch, Sasha, Dwight and Daryl are making, instead of straining to hear to them through the walls. Because until Mitch had announced it over the shipwide, he hadn't actually realized that someone was going to need to go back _out_ there. 

It's not that he hadn't known, he just hadn't _thought_ about it. About how dangerous it can be, and how they all _know_ that, now. 

Connor's sealsuit, last he'd seen, is down in the cargo bay. Hopefully it's been packed away. There are still enough to go around that nobody's going to need to use it. 

Soon, though, Mitch or Sasha- probably Mitch- will be assigning everyone their duties. He should get ready to help out. He should get up. Go out there. 

Try not to fuck up again. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 13:40_

Finally, the activity outside his quarters is getting close enough that he can't put it off any longer. Sasha is fighting her hair into a ponytail on the other side of his door when he opens it.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Was just about to wake you."

He doesn't correct her. "What's up?"

"We're getting started on the repairs, Daryl and Mitch are heading out in five. Could make it ten if you need a minute to get down to the tethers."

 _No_ , he wants to tell her; it's just as well that for a second, he can't actually breathe. _That's a terrible idea._ They need to double check every inch of the remaining suits. They need someone more experienced, someone who knows what to look out for and how to get ahead of it. And they need more time to get their heads back in the game, because Sasha and Mitch should know better than to put _him_ in charge of someone else's lifeline. 

"Laura-"

She shakes her head, cutting him off before he gets started. "She'll be running everything from the bridge. But Carl'll be with you, and you can follow his lead," She smiles tightly; for a minute he thinks she might admit that she's worried too. "And I'll be right there with you guys, working the airlock controls, I made sure of that. Anything goes wrong, we'll be right there." 

At the end of the corridor, Dwight's climbing gingerly up to the bridge, carrying all his weight in his arms and his one good leg. _Being right here doesn't preclude anything_ , he wants to say, but she's looking at him like she's prepared to argue if she needs to. 

The least he can do is not make things worse _deliberately_. 

"We're doing this right now?"

"No time like the present, right?" She smiles tightly at him, and heads up towards the bridge, calling up to Dwight and Laura she goes. 

It's not panic, and it's not vertigo, exactly but _something_ unpleasant is happening in his head and chest as he tries to prepare to actually move. 

\---  
At the bottom of the steps, Daryl and Mitch are nearly finished suiting up; if they're glaring at him, or shooting each other worried, resigned glances, he's at the wrong angle to see. Carl's fiddling with his eyepatch, but stops when he notices Paul looking at him, and steps aside to make room. 

They've started their checks. Life support, mobility, comms. Their voices are muddled through the helmets until the someone changes the channel to bounce them over the shipwide. But there are no barbs, no complaints, no outwardly admitted concerns. If the two of them spend more time checking their glove seals than usual, though, nobody mentions it. 

"Bridge," Mitch finally says, "We're prepared to exit."

"Understood. Sasha, leave the comms open. You have the controls."

The inner doors open, and Mitch steps first into the airlock. If not for the edge in Carl's tone when he taps Daryl on the arm and tells him to be careful, it would be entirely possible to ignore the elephant in the room. 

At least that's what Paul's telling himself. 

"Hold the lines rigid," Sasha reminds them. 

She's watching Mitch and Daryl anchor themselves in, and only once both nod back does she open the outer door. 

He can see much it through the small portal window, just a strip of stars past the edge of the outer door, but he doesn't want to look, either. 

He may or may not be the only one waiting for the horrible confirmation that Connor's frozen to the side of the hull. 

Other than some muttered grumbling- Daryl's readjusting his tool apron- everything, so far, is fine.

"Okay, we need about five meters to start," Mitch says. 

"Copy that," Paul says, watching the readout let out the requested amount of line. Next to him, Carl's handling Daryl's tether. 

Another thirty seconds or so, he and Daryl make their way out of the airlock. Their boots are connecting with the hull- he can hear it through the walls- and it's not too long before Daryl's announcing that they've got the line anchored, and requesting another five.

He doesn't sound afraid. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 13:55_

Twice in twenty four hours, Daryl's been out here. But it's different now, if only because of their too-clear awareness of exactly how badly things can go. 

"You good?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"I'm good," Mitch confirms; his voice only has a hint of strain to it. 

But Connor'd been good, right up until he wasn't. 

Once they reach the front of the ship, get anchored, and he starts working his way down into the drive intake. 

"Might want to check to make sure nothing else got jostled," Mitch suggests, needlessly, because it's not as if Daryl's not becoming acutely aware of just how tight everything is down here. Working the replacement filter into position is finicky work; there's no handle to help pop it back out if he seats it wrong. 

He goes slowly. Watches what his hands are doing. 

Tells himself he'd be doing that anyway, because a self-healing membrane's one thing, but there are _parts_ here, small and not entirely replaceable. 

Once the filter's locked into place, he begins working his way out, back to front. He rewires the module onto the port, then lets it hang from the wires, carefully, as he attaches the new bracket to the ring. 

All the while, Mitch is in his ear, reminding him to go slow. Reminding him that he's got plenty of air, that the radiation levels are within expected bounds. Asking if he needs anything. 

"Almost done," Daryl attempts to glance over his shoulder out of habit. All he can see is the back of his helmet and a wide swath of stars in his peripheral; he's reeling when he turns back to work on the last bolt, and that's when he feels it. The tug on his sleeve. 

He freezes. Takes a breath. His indicator light's still glowing a steady green. The wrist joint on his suit is caught- just barely- on the drive ring, wedged between two modules. 

The worst had come later, he reminds himself. When Connor'd started struggling on the way back, or maybe when he'd tried reaching for the airlock. But maybe he'd caught his wrist joint like this. Maybe it had been the straw _before_ the straw that broke the camel's back. 

Another few ounces of force, a twist at the right moment and-

"You all right?"

Carefully, he works his arm free, and checks his light again. "I'm fine," he manages, after a minute. "Just double checkin' everything." 

\---

Mitch reports that they're coming back in, but between the boot anchors and the line anchors having to be reset with every move, it's slow going. 

He can hear their steps through the hull. He knows exactly where they are. It doesn't stop him from wishing that they'd hurry up. Not enough to risk themselves. Just enough to get back in here sooner. 

Which is why he's startled to find that once Sasha closes the airlock, she doesn't immediately begin repressurizing it. 

"Sasha, the airlock-"

Looking up from the straps she's pulling out of the wall, she blinks over at him, confused. "What?"

"The pressure."

"I've got it."

"I mean-" 

"They've got their suits," Carl points out, frowning at him worriedly, before gesturing at the belt panel next to them and reaching for his own. 

"No, I mean, why aren't you _opening the door_?"

It's possible that he's said this a little too loudly, given the way Sasha's staring at him. But then realization dawns on her face, and just as she's opening her mouth to speak, Mitch cuts in over the comms. 

"No point in coming in if we're just gonna be turning around again," he says, with just a hint of laughter tinging the edges of his voice. 

"Oh," he says. "Guess I missed that part."

"That's what you get for sleeping in," Laura points out. "All right. Just a friendly reminder, there are no dampeners in the airlock, so make sure to triple anchor. The rest of you might want to strap in before it gets loud."

"Already done," Daryl confirms, and once Paul's caught up, leaning back agains the wall to lock the crossbody straps into place, Sasha announces that they're ready, too. 

"Okay, then commencing testing, and engaging the jump drive engine now."

\--- 

Almost immediately, everything starts to vibrate. Daryl can hear the engine over the comms more than he can directly. Or maybe that's the case; the vibrations are coming up through his feet and his shoulder and the back of his helmet, enough to rattle in his inner ear. 

The ship's not actually shaking apart around him. 

Mitch is just anchored him at the shoulder, waist and knees, same as him. Ain't no other reason he ain't moving. 

It's fine, he just has to get a better grip on his anchor straps, _hang on_ and try to listen. He doesn't have much to compare the noise to; it's quieter out here, than it had been in the medbay when they'd first taken off, but it's sharper, too. It's several seconds before he can acclimate enough to start trying to hear the diagnostics that Dwight's reporting. 

"Filter is seated. Intake pressure stabilizers are engaged. External shielding, one hundred percent, drive intake is at eighty but climbing. Long and shortwave are online, drive connections are good, and all modules are powered and online. Exterior and interior connections are all good, except for socket CB2, over by the workbench- Hey Daryl, you mind getting on that?"

Yeah, whatever. Probably that drill charger that went flying when they dropped out of the jump lane. "Fuck you."

"Pressure is holding, I'm just switching over to subfloor sensors... huh."

There's a loud empty pause before Mitch responds; he's probably clenching his teeth, by the sounds of it. "What is it?"

"It's not an alert, but I'm seeing a pressure notification on one of the water lines. Front central subfloor, don't know when it came on."

"Above the mesh or below?" Mitch asks.

"Above."

"Um, I might've kicked something, getting down there," Carl adds. "Sorry. I mean, I don't know, but it was tight."

"Duly noted," Dwight responds. "I'll take a look at it once we're done here."

"Will do."

"Good, well. That's it. Shields are climbing, charge's ready, we can make the jump whenever."

"Laura, you've got us dialed in?"

"Taking it up in manual, just to be on the safe side," she says. "But the route's locked in, yeah."

"All right," Mitch says, his voice louder than it's been; he's acclimated, at least. "In that case, let's get this show on the road."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 07/16/2194, 14:30_

Paul braces himself for the jump. Tries not to close his eyes. 

It's happening, though. The shields buffer most of the force, but it's still enough to throw him into the wall; Carl lets out an irritated _ouch_ when his head hits the wall next to him, but apart from that, they're fine. 

"How's it sounding in there?" Mitch asks, over the comms.

"We're okay," Sasha confirms. "You guys hanging in there all right? Enjoying the ride?"

"Ha fuckin' ha." Mitch says. 

Paul listens, trying to make out any aberration in the noise. The sound's comfortably familiar, for the most part, though he's never stood in this exact spot and taken notice of it. For a few moments, everyone remains silent, waiting for some ugly, unexpected noise, to jolt them out of their tentative relief. 

It's another five minutes before Mitch finally gives the order to pressurize the airlock- Paul's close enough to the intake that his ears pop when Sasha engages it- and _finally_ , the door's opening, and Mitch and Daryl are stumbling back inside. 

"Bridge, let's keep monitoring, but I think we're good," Mitch announces, voice cutting out suddenly as he removes his helmet. 

Paul, for his part, says nothing. Just watches as he and Daryl start divesting themselves of their gloves- those are the first to go- and then kickboards, tethers, and- most thankfully- their very intact sealsuits. Daryl's slower to move; it's not until his hands start working on the apron strapped to the front of his suit that Paul notices the shake in his hands. 

It's been his second time out there in less than a day, only the first in which he hadn't had to haul a dead body inside with him. He had to have been thinking about that. Paul certainly hadn't been unaware. But he hadn't had to _go out there_ , either. 

Once Daryl's fought his suit- apron and all- back down to around his waist, Paul can't help it. He's lunging forward, dragging him into a hug that he's clearly not expecting, but manages not to fight off. Something's digging into his hip uncomfortably- the kickrig, or maybe the tool apron Daryl hasn't removed yet- but Paul doesn't care.

"The fuck?" Daryl's left arm nudges Paul's side in a move that's less about hugging back, and more about ensuring that they don't overbalance. 

But he's not shoving him off. Yet. 

Paul can feel him breathing, though, which means he notices it when he inhales to speak, so he cuts him off before he gets the chance.

"I'm just _really_ glad you're okay." He says it more emphatically than he means to- mostly into the slightly damp material at Daryl's shoulder because of the angle- before admitting to himself that he really _is_ making a fool of himself. So he backs off. 

Daryl blinks at him in confused concern, but his face is on the verge of breaking into a smirk, at least, if not an outright grin. And it's getting weird- Sasha's already giggling- so Paul turns towards Mitch with the vague notion of offering him a handshake, or something, suddenly needing to normalize whatever the hell had just come over him. 

Mitch is kicking his feet free of his own suit, back turned, and isn't even paying attention. And Carl and Sasha, he realizes with relief, have already converged on Daryl, ostensibly trying to help him out of the suit, but mostly just trapping him there against the wall, the suit caught around his calves. Daryl's surrendered for the moment, but he's clearly getting to the end of his patience with their prodding hands. 

Distractedly, he glances at Paul for maybe a split second, and then suddenly, he's moving again, shaking his head and rolling his eyes and saying, "Carl, seriously, I fuckin' _got_ this."

Edging past Mitch on his way to the steps, Paul's careful to congratulate him and shake his hand, mostly in case anyone is looking. Tells him he's glad he's okay, which only makes Mitch look at him funny. But if he notices anything weird about Paul's vehemence, he doesn't let on.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I give up, I can't even look at this anymore. Get thee behind me, chapter 17. XP

_Wednesday, 07/20/2194, 03:19_

"-never should've let him -"

Paul's creeping down the emergency-strobe lit corridor. The emergency alarms are blaring, but he can still hear the floor creak loudly with every step. And behind every door- and there are dozens- he can hear another conversation cutting off mid-sentence. 

"-gonna get us all killed-"

The listening resentful silence that follows Sasha's voice is weighty enough to propel him forward again, up the lengthening hallway, only to be stopped after only four steps. 

"-thinks he's some kind of _somethin'_ ," Negan's saying, on the other side of a door that shouldn't be there. Only he doesn't shy away from it. "'Yeah, squint, I'm talkin' about you. Thanks for taking care of shit for me."

He knows he's dreaming, but he needs to turn the alarms off first, needs to fix this. But the hallway just keeps getting longer.

And when he does wake, remembering none of this, he's exhausted all the same. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 07/21/2194, 23:38_

Everyone's been running their asses off clearing flags for days now. Now that they're moving again, Mitch has been having them run surprise drills once or twice a day: rapid depressurization lockdowns and evacs, water leaks, navigation systems and radiation shielding failures. This morning the fucker'd decided to wake them all up with a fake life support failure alarm. 

They'd gotten through it just fine on the first try, but only, Daryl suspects, because Mitch hadn't decided to mock up a complete power failure to go along with it. He's probably working up to it slowly, not wanting a mutiny on his hands. 

The rest of Daryl's time's been spent trying to clear flags. Rovia's had the queue filled with every preventative measure conceivable, for every system on board. Most of it's busy work, and nobody believes otherwise, but it's been keeping Daryl busy enough that every once in a while, Carl will be passing him wire cutters or something, and it'll feel so much like home that he has to look up and check that it ain't. 

It's the rest of the time that's walking-on-eggshells weird. 

The bridge's been set to autopilot for an hour each evening- the order had been Mitch's words and, almost definitely, Sasha's idea. 

So every evening they gather, their eyes darting anywhere but at the empty seat at the table. Spencer's been making a show of ensuring that everyone has a turn choosing the menu each night, like it's some big cure-all for everything. Even so, they're probably wasting more than they're eating, just shoving their food around their plates and trying not to be obvious about wanting to leave. 

Outside of that, though, conversations tend to fall flat more quickly than they used to, or fall short of where they might otherwise be headed. Whenever anyone tries cracking a joke just to break the quiet, most everyone starts laughing louder and longer than they need to. And all the while, everyone's listening for the sound of a proximity alert and hoping to have an excuse to go deal with something tangible. 

As long as nobody brings it up, they can go on pretending that nothing's wrong. Sasha'd tried, yesterday and the day before, reminding them all that she was there, if anyone wanted to talk. Daryl's pretty sure there haven't been any takers. 

She hadn't mentioned it tonight, though, and maybe it's a relief. 

Book club's on hold until the idea of reading about the various and sundry ways space can kill a person starts sounding like any sort of entertainment. Instead, for the past few nights, Carl and Laura'd been up there, leaning over the vid player and staring at the screen with glazed eyes as some decades-old Korean TV show played out. Everyone else's taken to disappearing back into their quarters or the cargo bay, unless they're up for a shift. 

Daryl's next one ain't until tomorrow night, which means he's off rotation tomorrow afternoon, which means that honestly, it's probably not a bad thing that the insomnia's decided to come back in full force. Yesterday, he'd managed to wear himself out enough that he hadn't spent half of last night picking apart everything he should've noticed and could've done differently to keep Connor alive.

Tonight, it's like his brain's trying to make up for lost time. 

He knows sealsuits, knows the helmets and the gear. He knows how to fix a breach in the middle of a blinding windstorm, when the dust and grit is gumming up the works. He knows how to tape a cracked helmet through quarter-inch thick gloves. And he _damn_ well knows how to check the rest of the crew's setup to make sure they're not about to get themselves killed. 

Least, that's what he'd thought. 

He missed the pinched lining caught up in the wrist seal. Hadn't seen whatever'd happened in order for the lining to become a wedge. Hadn't been _paying attention_ to how Connor'd been moving; if he had, maybe he could've fixed it before it had become fatal, or gotten him back sooner, or something. 

He probably could've saved him. 

\---

Daryl's still got a little more than half a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet, which means he ought to be keepin' an eye on it, but the thought f a nightcap is sounding awfully good, right now

The calculation's depressingly familiar. He can't remember Merle deliberately setting out to teach him, but he'd picked it up all the same. By age seven, he could count the cans of shit beer in the fridge, then check it against the hardware store calendar. By age eight, he knew better than to try fooling himself into thinking the supply would be enough to keep dear old Dad passing out by ten until the next assistance check arrived.

Merle'd started stealing, 'round about then. Liters of vodka, sometimes, but usually plastic flasks of whatever'd been easiest to walk out with, then come back with some story about finding it at the park. It worked, long as the old man was drunk at the time. Otherwise, he'd catch on about the stealing, and Merle would catch hell. 

Daryl'd tried bein' smart about it, stockpiling cans from the fridge a few times, stashing them out in the shed and sneaking them back into the fridge in a hackneyed attempt to make Dad think he'd just misplaced them himself. Hadn't done any good, though; he'd just beat the shit outta Merle, instead, figurin' it was him. 

_Least he's still drunk_ , Merle'd said, finding him hiding behind the shed, and he'd smirked in a way that might not have been as brave as Daryl remembers. _Missed me more times than he got me_.

It's only fitting, then, that it's Merle's voice that he's hearing in his head right now. _What's wrong, Darleena? Thought you wanted a distraction?_

He rubs a hand over his face and gets up, pulling the whiskey out of the cabinet. Thinks about downing the whole thing, just to make the whole fucking thing a non-issue. 

But four months is a long fucking time, and he's got a bridge shift tomorrow night. 

One shot, he decides. In an actual glass- easier to keep track that way- then he'll put the bottle back in the cabinet. 

\--- 

He's heading through the commons, heading for the kitchen, when he hears it. Up on the bridge, Rovia is talking to himself. 

"...shielding, 10.7 percent... Rear shielding, 4.8 percent... Jump drive, 67.2 percent... LRS, 2.4 percent... SRS, .8 percent..."

It sounds like he's reading off every power draw stat the screen's giving him. Either he's trying to stay awake, or trying to put himself to sleep, or he's simply losing his mind. Regardless, it's weird. And possibly not something that the person piloting a ship at several times the speed of light should need to be doing. 

"Hey Rovia, you need a break or anything?"

The mumbling cuts off, and it's followed by a cough. "Ah. No, I'm good."

Not counting directives over the job queue, Daryl realizes, this is the most either of them have said to each other since he'd gotten back on board. 

"Right on." Daryl ducks into the kitchen, grabs a glass, and his brain just stutters to a stop. 

It hadn't really stuck out before, seein' as how everyone's been lookin' like shit and keepin' close to quarters the past few days, brittle and quiet. But Rovia, though. It's kind of not right. 

Every time Daryl glances up from scraping his food from one end of his plate to the next, Rovia's glancing around the table, worriedly surveying everyone's downturned faces. Every updated flag on the job queue's getting a response- even something as stupid as replacing the seals on the medbay sink drain had earned a paragraph asking about how it had gone, is there anything else that should be added to the queue, should monitoring the drain be added to the autoschedule queue. 

The only reason he knows about it is that Dwight's the type to read the flag comments when he clears them, and he'd been rolling his eyes about it down by the workbench. "There's dotting I's and crossing T's," he'd said. "But I'm pretty sure the rest of the alphabet's doin' fine as it is."

Daryl blinks, realizing that he's just been staring at the reflection of the comms box in the window for a few minutes now, without moving an inch. He sets the glass in its slot and closes the cupboard. If the exhaustion's finally catching up to him, he can just go pass out. 

But apparently, something about the act of getting his coveralls and boots on and coming up here, has tricking his brain into thinking that it's actually time for him to be awake. And there's this other shit, now, prickling at the back of his brain. 

Rovia's eyebrows are raised when he climbs up and takes the co-pilot chair, and he smirks humorlessly. His voice has an irritated edge to it, but it don't seem to be aimed nowhere in particular. "Can't sleep, or are you just worried I'm going to drive us into a debris field?"

_Nah, just got bored contemplating my descent into Dixon-grade alcoholism_. He shakes his head, looks out at the hints of stars streaking dimly in front of them, and stifles a yawn. "How's it been?"

Rovia's assessment would be sharper if not for the dark circles under his eyes, but he relents, eventually, to glare out through the windshield. "Oh, you know. First bridge shift since sending everything to _absolute_ hell, so. Yeah."

_That why you're sittin' here talking to yourself like some kind of lunatic?_ The questions there, pointed and ready to draw blood, if he wants to. But he doesn't ask. 

"The ship broke, is all. That wasn't on you." No response. "Everything mighta gone to hell, but it ain't like you sent it there. Shit happens." This earns him a snort, but it's not as amused as it sounds when he turns his head to look. "What?"

Rovia shakes his head, then sighs. "Nothing. Just. Connor told me the same thing."

"He wasn't wrong."

"He might've been right _then_. One thing leading to another, I'm not too sure what he'd say about it now." 

His tone's _just_ this side of joking; mostly, it falls bitter and flat. With everyone bein' so goddamned silent and careful lately, it feels like he's breaking some unspoken shipwide agreement. Or maybe it's just because he's usually so damned _politic_ the rest of the time.

Sitting up here, watching the stars zipping out of sight the moment he makes them out, checking the monitors for things he's not currently tasked to track, it occurs to Daryl that Rovia probably doesn't need him here any more than he needs to be here. He can- he _should_ \- just get up, say goodnight, head back to his quarters, and try to pass out. 

But there it is again. He's the wrong kind of tired for sleep. 

He's tired of letting the thoughts knock around the way they've been doing. He's tired of his own footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, tired of his cramped room. He's tired of _everyone on board_ waiting out this holding pattern like if they don't say anything about it, it never happened. And he's too tired to give a shit if Rovia hears it. 

"Been tryin' to figure out, like, when, _exactly_ , I should've realized something was up, or like when it was goin' from bad to worse out there. He was right _there_ , you know?" Rovia doesn't ask him to explain exactly what it was like, having someone in an armlock, knowing that they were in trouble but not knowing it quickly enough. He doesn't even look away from the windshield. But he doesn't tell him to shut up, either. "We were heading back, and he kind of... rallied. For a minute. Least I thought he was. Think he was just dyin' though. Maybe not. Drillin' down on it for days, still don't know-" 

This probably ain't anything Rovia wants to hear, so he cuts off his rambling, eyes drawn to the monitor switching over to show the air scrubber efficiency. It's at 100 percent. If it were the inside of a helmet, it would've been glowing, green and steady. 

"By the time we knew we were fucked," he says, forcing himself to the point, "we were _fucked_ , you know?"

He takes a breath- it sounds loud in his head- and already, he's thinking he should've saved it. 

"So what you're saying is," Rovia sounds skeptical, "that short of a time machine, and going back with what we know now, there's not much to be done for it." 

Yeah. Guess he is. 

Daryl nods, eyes locked forward, not so much because Rovia's _getting_ it, but because he'd kind of figured he would. 

Even so. 

For a second, Rovia looks like he's going to say something more, but then he shakes his head and settles back into his seat instead. The green and blue lights from the dashboard are making the shadows under his eyes even more pronounced than they probably are, and he ain't smiling, but he ain't white knuckling the controls anymore. 

He's not sure if this is one of those times where there's something else he should be sayin' or not- or why it is that Paul Rovia's levels of contentedness have suddenly become this much of a concern- so he splits the difference and changes the subject.

"Been straightening shit out in the hold." Mostly just for the sake of not going upstairs, but there's no reason to belabor the point. "Figure if we reorganized the crates, condensed a few things, we'd be able to clear some floor space down there."

"Okay..."

Daryl can practically see the wheels turning as he tries to figure out where, on the job queue, this is all coming from. 

It's kind of funny. 

"I mean, you were talkin' about sparring, and we got a ship full of people who need their heads knocked back into place, so..."

Rovia's face splits into a surprised grin that's so sudden and wide that Daryl doesn't really know what to do with it. 

Right now, he'd just settle for the pounding glowing feeling behind his ribs to dial it down a notch. 

\---

_Friday, 07/22/2194, 01:10_

The conversation had dwindled down to nothing a while ago, but Daryl's quiet is different than everyone else's. Maybe it's just because it's not en masse and all at once, or maybe it's because he's never really been one to run off at the mouth. 

Maybe- no, definitely- it's because he's sleeping. 

It's not catching, though. Paul's more awake than he's been in days, even if it's mostly due to anxiety regarding the sticky topic of waking someone up. 

_He's going to wind up with a crick in his neck, hanging his head like that._

He doesn't know how quietly or loudly to go about it. 

_He'll sleep better in his own bed._

It's not like there's an alarm or a door chime up here, some kind of scapegoat that'll take care of the situation for him. Reaching over, whether to tap, shake or poke at him feels like taking liberties. 

And Paul should be concentrating on the monitors, on the navigation settings, on pretty much anything up on this bridge that _isn't_ Daryl Dixon. 

It's just. He's _here_ , and the surprise entirely hasn't worn off yet. 

Out of anyone on board, he'd figured that Daryl would be the last one easing back into the notion of company. Specifically, _his_. He'd barely tolerated Sasha and Carl fawning all over him, and neither of them had gone so far as to poke at his whole gruff Technicki bullshit the way Paul had. 

_It was just a hug. It's not as if you pinned him up against the wall and started kissing him._

He's been thinking about it, though. And that's a problem. 

There are the emergency protocols that he clearly hadn't gotten down as well as he'd thought. There are half a dozen other people on board with them, all flying without a captain, and none of them know what's going to happen when and if they land. There are dozens of jobs on the queue in the meantime, and two de-facto leaders he needs to keep apprised. He doesn't have time for this. 

But the thought's been creeping up between the cracks for days, now, like some sort of punishment for not focusing like he should. 

And hell, half the time, it's not even kissing that he's thinking about; he's not even entirely convinced that it's _Daryl_ he's thinking about. 

It's just... like this. Sitting with someone, talking about dumb crap like turning insulation sheeting into floor mats while staring off into enough _nothing_ that the rest of the bullshit doesn't matter, if only for a while. 

The fact that it happens to come packaged in someone like Daryl- broad shoulders, strong arms and all- is just icing on cake that he probably shouldn't eat. 

Paul's got enough sense to not get himself twisted up over someone who'd attacked him with a wrench, for starters, even if he doesn't think it would happen again. And hell, at least if Daryl's ever showed any signs of attempting it again, it would probably tip the balance, turn this all into a non-issue. 

Instead, when Daryl should've been hiding out in the hold, or keeping to his quarters like everyone else, he'd climbed up here out of the blue. He'd sat down, and started talking. With just a few words, spoken so matter-of-factly that Paul'd been halfway to believing them before even really hearing them, he'd stopped Paul's wheels from spinning. Kept him from spiraling out completely. 

Never mind the fact that he's got Sasha and Carl on board but he's hanging out with Paul instead. Never mind his dry sense of humor, or the fact that he only grins when he really means it, and never mind that he's not so wary of Paul's piloting skills, apparently, that he can't fall asleep in the pilot's seat. 

Besides, all this- whatever it is, which is _nothing_ \- is probably something that doesn't even bear thinking about anyway. Because right now, Daryl's waking up of his own volition, stretching in his seat and squinting out at the stars, frowning like he's trying to figure out how best to kill them. 

"Shit," he groans, only partially awake. His knuckles graze the overhead control panel as he stretches. "Sorry, think I passed out for a minute."

Paul feigns ignorance and shrugs, eyes on his screen, pretending the efficiency readouts are more worthy of his attention than they really are.

"Huh. I hadn't noticed."


	18. Chapter 18

_Monday, 07/25/2194, 10:24_

"You seein' anything down there?"

"Just the mesh and the mains," Carl calls up from the subfloor. "Could get a few more feet in, but it's kind of tight around the pipes." He backs up until Daryl can see his feet through the floor, and adds, skeptically, "You think maybe whatever it was just sorted itself out?" 

"Yeah maybe. Ain't puttin' that on the ticket, though, or they'll have us rippin' up the whole goddamned floor. But take another look at the sensors while you're down there. Any corrosion or anything?"

"Not that I can see. You think it's like a Bucephalus sort of deal?"

Daryl laughs. He hadn't thought about the rover in a while, which is impressive, given how many dreams he'd had, for a while there, about tearing about the gearbox and discovering that the inner workings had been replaced by a box full of hammers, or had rusted together completely.

Abe had named it after some shitty truck he'd had back in Texas, thanks to the _check engine_ light that never disappeared no matter how much work Abe'd put into it. 

He holds his breath at the thought, for just a minute. Figures, suddenly, that the whole "moment of silence" thing must've been invented by someone who'd just needed to wait a second and see which way their brain would jump at the thought of a dead comrade. 

He can picture Abe all right. It ain't even a memory or an image or nothing, just a notion of the cursing he'd be taking to this particular task. 

The anger hits, no less sharp or cold for all his expectation of it.

"Might've been for a minute," he tells Carl, after taking a long slow breath and redoubling his focus. "But nothing's showing on the diagnostics." 

"There wasn't anything earlier, either."

"Told you, the only reason we're down here is 'cause Dwight and Rovia never met a diagnostic they didn't want to check half a dozen times. All hail the job queue, right?"

Carl grunts, and starts backing himself out towards the opening, so Daryl turns his attention to the systems scanner. If something's going to ping, now would be the time for it. Preferably now, before Carl grew another inch. Kid's shooting up like bamboo or something. 

Which is why it's weird to be noticing how _young_ he looks- despite the eye patch and the grease on his arms- when he finally climbs back out and slides the panel back into place. "You need any help in the cargo bay?"

"You finish up on that airlock module yet?" 

"No." Carl pulls a face, passing up the toolbox. "Ain't like I haven't been around them my whole damn life. Still don't get why I can't just start in on the bridge training."

"Maybe 'cause Mitch ain't gonna let anyone up there who doesn't know how to use a damn _door_ first?"

"It's gonna take me like ten minutes, _tops_. I'll work on it tonight when nobody's banging crates around, okay?"

Daryl shrugs, kind of getting the sense there's something more that he's not quite saying, but not wanting to push. 

And hell, as long as Daryl's working with him, maybe they won't wind up with rice in the tool box and grease in the med box. "All right, fine. C'mon. But we ain't just shovin' shit wherever, all right?"

\--- 

_Monday, 07/25/2194, 15:50_

"I've got it, just, shift over." 

Daryl shakes his head, but backs off enough to get a better view of what Rovia's trying to do. Left to his own devices, it's lookin' like he's about to rivet the mat to the subfloor access panel. 

"You know, more I think about it, Squints ain't got no business goin' round takin' a rivet gun to the floor."

"Right, I forgot about the rigorous training you all go through in order to figure out which way to point it." Rovia passes it over with a sarcastic bow that would maybe have more effect if he didn't have those bits of packing foam staticked to his hair. "You think you could do better, then be my guest."

"I think a drunk toddler could do better, but whatever." Daryl rolls his eyes, shooing him back and squaring the front edge of the insulation liner a few inches shy of the subfloor access panel. Tugging it taut, he ignores Rovia's oohing and aahing and starts riveting it to the floor.

"Oh, _now_ I see," Rovia gushes. "Yeah, that's makes _such_ a difference."

"Sorry, didn't realize you wanted everyone trippin' over the damn thing every time we come down here." 

"Sorry, didn't realize that _looking where you're going_ was such a rare skill."

Daryl snorts, shifting back to drive in the last few rivets. With that, they're almost finished. "Think you can manage to figure out how the tape works, or d'you need the manual?"

"Oh, I don't know, you really sure you want to take that much of a risk?"

"How's it coming?" Sasha's leaning against the doorway, eyebrows raised. 

"Fine," Daryl says. "Despite this idiot's best efforts."

"Says the guy who was all set to put the packing foam on _top_ of the stuff that isn't going to get shredded to pieces the moment anyone sets foot on it."

Sasha looks back and forth between the two of them for a minute before her face cracks into the first real grin he's seen from her in weeks. "You two think you can hold yourself back from beating each other up until after dinner? I want to make sure everyone gets down here to see it."

\--- 

In the end, the timing just doesn't work out, because for the first time in a week, nobody's gunning to escape the table the moment dinner's done. 

Things have been getting better, in fits and starts. The sparring mats been something to work on, and planning out how they'll go about the training's been something to talk about. Safe, low stakes. Novel. 

Also, for the first time since leaving, they've got lettuce and arugula on their plates, and a few tomatoes that taste even more watery than the colony's do; this last turns out to be a bigger source for debate than Daryl would've thought. 

Spencer seems more confused than insulted, when he mentions it. "The plant food has all the nutrients and -" 

"No, no," Sasha shakes her head, cutting him off. "It's something with the dirt. Minerals or something." She spears a slice off her plate with her fork and holds it up. "I mean, these are _amazing_ -"

Rovia smirks. "Nothing like two months on dried goods to make a person lose their mind over a plant."

"True, but. I swear to god. My grandma, she had these huge tomato plants growing in her back yard, just _taking over_ the place. To the point where we got sick to death of them every summer. Colony grown is great, but they tasted different. Like they knew they weren't on Earth."

"Probably all the rubidium leaching up under the subsoil," Laura jokes, earning comically worried looks from both Mitch and Dwight.

"That's a myth," Spencer reassures them. "The veins aren't anywhere near the colony itself." 

"SciMed was studying the plants a few years back, and found out that the tomatoes and bamboo and rice had already become like their own distinct strain," Carl says, shrugging when half the table turns to look at him. "Or something like that. We talked about it in school."

"Colony hybrid tomatoes." Mitch pulls a thoughtful face. " _There's_ a bartering chip they won't see coming."

"You intend on leaving leftovers?" Sasha asks, popping a piece into her mouth. "'Cause I'm not."

"You say that now, but at the rate they're taking over the garden, we'll all be drowning in them once again by the time we get there."

"Thank you, Chairmen, for allowing us this audience," Laura intones, cracking up as she addresses an imagined assembly. "Put simply, our proposition is this. In return for the ongoing financial and logistical support of the colony, we are prepared to give you... this bushel of tomatoes."

"You think spaceships just grow on trees?" Rovia shakes his head, taking on the role of some unimpressed honcho. "Make it two, and a bucket of ricemeal, and you've got a deal." 

"You drive a hard bargain, but I think we can come to an arrangement." Laura frowns seriously, extending her hand for him to shake. "See?" She mugs, back at the table. "Easy as pie, problem solved."

Daryl goes back to eating, wondering if this, right here, is what tips them all over into actually starting to discuss what the hell they're going to do when they land. They're going to have to figure it out at _some_ point, after all. 

Or maybe they won't. They're all winging it, here, and they already know it. Sasha probably ain't going to want to make it official. So he's not surprised, really, when they glance off of it on their way to another tangent. 

But at least people are talking at all. Makes dinners go by faster, at any rate. 

\---

 _Monday, 07/25/2194, 23:58_

It's just starting to get late, when Rovia climbs up and throws himself into the co-pilot's seat, then wipes at his face and the side of his neck with his sleeve. 

"Thought everyone turned in," Daryl glances over. He'd heard people trudging up into their respective quarters a while ago, but from the way he's draining the water bottle he'd brought up with him, he hadn't gotten the memo. "You wear yourself shadow boxing? You know y'ain't gonna catch him."

"Ha fucking ha," Rovia rolls his eyes and exhaling deeply. "Nah, I stayed down there for a while. Figured I was already gross, might as well get some time in on the equipment."

"How'd it go?"

"The elliptical?" He opens one eye to look at him. "It was fantastic."

"The sparring. Any fatalities?"

"Just my ego." He tilts his head to show him a shadow that _might_ be a bruise on the side of his neck, disappearing under his beard. "Turns out, Spencer's really bad at pulling his punches."

 _Right_.

He glances over. Rovia's not cracking up, just looking mildly affronted.

"You serious?"

"I may have underestimated him. Or overestimated. I'm not exactly sure."

The picture's vivid and cartoonish: slow wide swings, explosive impact, birds tweetin' around Rovia's head. He holds the laughter in for exactly three seconds, but then it starts shakin' at his shoulders, too strong to fight. 

" _Wow_ ," Rovia's eyebrows are raised as high as they'll go, all mock offense and woe-is-me. "First my ego, now my heart."

 _Poor thing, need me to kiss it better_ , he's almost tempted to joke, which turns out to be a convenient way of startling the laughter right out of him. He's quick to recover, though, with a cough that hopefully isn't too conspicuous. "That's what you get, talkin' all that fists of fury shit." 

"Speaking of putting your money where your mouth is, you should come down Thursday."

"I dunno, seein's how I _ain't_ been sayin' shit about it."

"Well, putting your money where Carl's mouth is, then, 'cause he's been informing everyone that he's pretty sure you can wipe the walls with all of us, Mitch included."

"Fuckin' Christ." 

"So you going to come down and defend your title, or what?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever." 

"Whatever, _whatever_. You just don't want everyone to see you getting your ass handed to you."

He snorts. "Been there, done that."

"Oh yeah?"

"The AdSec yard. Negan's whole training camp thing." Not to mention half a dozen other times he can think of. Sometimes with Merle, sometimes against him. 

He keeps his eyes trained forward, trying to ignore the grin faltering in his peripheral. For a minute it seems like he might be about to ask, and Daryl's not sure what he thinks about that. 

In the end, though, Rovia just shrugs. "Right, well. Guess that means the strong money's on you, then."

"Someone's keepin' books? Thought this was just about practicing."

"Dwight needed something to do, being sidelined and all. But yeah, it's a little of both, depending on who's on the mat."

 _Figures_.

The screen goes bright the long range sensor's alerting him of the weak edge of the gravity field that's up ahead. They'll be skirting it in about three hours, but that's plenty of time to lay in the course corrections. Bouncing the navigation system to the main screen, he starts copying in the variables. It takes just enough of his attention that he has to stop and replay the question Rovia's asking him. 

"Did you ever go up against him?"

"Who?"

"Dwight. Er, back in the yard."

"No." 

If Dwight had ever been first in the yard, it had been before Daryl'd gotten pulled into the whole mess. Mostly, Dwight had just marched the suckers in, and watched from the stands. "He was already in good with Negan, by then."

He shrugs, and for a few minutes, it's just quiet. Even the unrelenting, omnipresent noise from the engine's only there when he searches it out. 

They've already downshifted, slightly, for the approach to the relay station, though that's still weeks away. Worth it, in terms of energy conservation, not to mention the other kinds of caution nobody's gone out of their way to put too fine a point on. Because of this, the stars look a little brighter, even if they seem to disappear out of sight as quickly as they've always done. 

It kind of reminds him of falling snow on a vid feed, unnaturally real. 

"So. Weird question, and you can tell me to piss off, but how'd all that work anyway? I heard some stuff about it, but never saw." 

"They parade a bunch of assholes into the yard to beat the shit out of each other." It ain't that complicated. But still, he doesn't know how much detail to go into. 

Ain't like he knows how to describe what it had felt like, listening to everyone in the stands cheer as he'd beat a man unconscious because that had been the _easier_ track to take. 

"Negan, or one of his, I dunno, yes-men or whatever, you pissed them off and they'd make you first in the yard. Give you a head start before sending the chasers after you. First in the yard is usually first to the infirmary. Once he's down, the chasers would start in on each other until there's just one left standing."

"So they sent five guys after you?"

"Uh. No." He loosens his jaw, not really sure when he'd started clenching his teeth. "They put me in as a chaser."

"Oh." Rovia's sounding apologetic enough that it's depressing. Like he'd had this idea in his head that Daryl _hadn't_ been an active participant in the whole thing. He'd been unwilling, sure. But not shoved out there like some rabbit running from dogs. 

But that's bullshit, and he knows it. Maybe not a rabbit. Just another mutt in a dogfight. 

He hopes Rovia ain't about to ask him who he fought. He hadn't caught their names. The last man to go down, he'd had a NATOPS tattoo on his neck, same as Laura's. He'd been wearing Daryl's own clothes, angel wings and all- and it's just now that he's realizing that that too had probably been orchestrated. But Daryl can't remember his face at all. 

He'd done what he'd needed to. And he's done talkin' about it, so he changes the subject. "I'm guessin' the whole setup downstairs ain't going to be goin' that far, though, right?"

"Right." Rovia brightens, like he, too, is relieved to be moving on. "Mostly it's just everyone trading pointers. Getting Carl up to speed."

"How'd he do with it?"

"Good, good." There's a pause, and Daryl's pretty sure he knows what's to follow already. "I mean, he's got the whole..." 

"Missing eye?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess." Rovia bristles, just a little, like he's not sure how offended he's supposed to be. "Wasn't sure how he'd feel about me bringing it up, with everyone right there watching. Like, he seems cool about it, but it's only been a few weeks, so I kind of wonder if he's just keeping at locked down, more than anything. So I kind of wonder if he's just going to be rolling with things when he shouldn't."

Daryl nods, guiltily calculating how long it's been since _he's_ put any effort into bringing it up with Carl. It's only been two and a half, three weeks, but it's a lifetime ago. Sasha's been making a point with checking in on him; he's as sure of that as he is of the fact that he's been using it as an excuse not to. 

Only she's a hell of a lot busier now, running herself ragged, and anyway, none of this is on her. 

Rick, he knows, wouldn't let this shit slide, even if Carl and Sasha are letting him get away with it. 

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," he says, stating it with enough finality that it seems like bein' less shitty than he's been is gonna be simple. "See what he thinks and go from there."

"Cool, thanks."

For a few minutes, Daryl's just busy confirming the course correction and uploading it to the system. It gives him time to think, not so much about the question, but how he ought to ask it. 

"You really think it's gonna come down to fisticuffs when we land? Ain't gonna do much against bullets and bombing raids, NATOPS territory or not." He feels like an asshole, sayin' it like that- and there it is again, that irritating _concern_ about what Rovia's gonna think that's been welling up lately- so he's not surprised when it takes Rovia a few minutes to answer. 

"No? Not really? I don't know." He sounds like he's losing hope with every word. "I mean, even if it's just messing around and killing time, there's a lot to be said for giving people an opportunity to feel like they've got some sort of control, you know?"

"Even if it's bullshit?"

"Fake it 'til you make it, right?" Rovia sighs, and it stretches into a yawn. "Seriously, though," he says, leaning his back into co-pilot's seat. "Figure we'll be going for Mondays and Thursdays, so everyone has time to recover. But you should come down."

"Yeah. Maybe."


	19. Chapter 19

_Wednesday, 07/27/2194, 20:13_

Carl'd been in a bad mood all day yesterday, so he hadn't really felt like pushing it. At least today he'd been fine, up until Sasha'd started making some noises at dinner about starting in on another book.

She hadn't pushed, but Carl'd been kind of an ass about it anyway. 

Daryl'd puttered around at the workbench for twenty minutes or so, figuring that with the whole conversation bein' so overdue anyway, he could at least get his thoughts together first. 

Mostly, his mind had been a blank. If not for Spencer and Laura- back on again, giving the looks of things- hadn't shown up to play with the plants, he'd probably still be down there, staring at the wall. 

"So," he says, now that Carl, clearly having already sussed out more of this conversation than Daryl has, closes the door. "How's it going?"

"Fine." Carl sits on his bed, and then swings his feet up to rest his back against the wall. It also has the effect of hiding his eye patch, which means that he catches Daryl glancing down towards his feet, which are propped up on the pillow. "You mean the eye, don't you?" 

His remaining one, he uses to look right through him, apparently. 

"The eye, you. All of it, I guess."

"I'm fine and it's fine."

He nods, knowing he could just leave it there, and that they'd _both_ probably prefer it if he did. "Still bothering you though?"

"Well, yeah. Sometimes. Like every once in a while, when I'm reading for too long. But it's like, the _eye_ hurts, not, like, the socket."

"Is it getting worse?"

"No better, no worse."

Daryl nods, catching something in the window's reflection, and turns to look at the cabinets. Carl's drawn all over them. Doodles, mostly, though down in the corner, by the other end of the bed are some faces that he'd probably recognize if he got a closer look.

"On the other hand, it's not growing back either, so at least I know I'm not like some alien monster who's going to start hunting the crew, ripping out their spinal columns and eating their brains."

"Damn, kid. The hell've you been watching?"

"Some bullshit movie." Twisting around so his feet are on the floor, Carl laughs at the disgust on his face, which is most of the reason Daryl's got it plastered on there. "Looked _super_ fake, though, and I couldn't understand any of the dialogue. Not sure I needed to."

"Carl, you know if you start eating the crew, I'm gonna have to tell your dad."

"Not if I eat you first." 

"Fair enough." He pretends to give it some thought. He'd been Carl's age, 500 years ago. He probably could've figured that talking about the grossest shit possible would be the best way to break the ice. "Just starting out, bein' new at it and all, you'd probably have an easier time goin' after Dwight, least until the boot comes off."

"He kept shouting at me to get my arm up when Paul was sparring with me, so either he's a possible ally, or just not the easiest target."

That's almost scarily perceptive, for him to have thought it through that much. "How'd that go, anyway?"

"The sparring?"

"Yeah."

Carl's been leaning forward for a while, but suddenly he's on his feet and _moving_ , even if it is just shifting around in the cramped space of his quarters.

"So, like, it's kind of hard to track, right, 'cause my depth perception's..."

"Not great?"

"Technically nonexistent. Like I still have to _watch_ to see when something's coming directly at me, and there are some angles that're pretty rough. Mitch figured it out right away, so he'll tell me if something's coming." He rolls his shoulder and starts extending his arm, to illustrate. "And he says everyone's got to start slow anyway, so that's been cool."

"How's everyone else doin' with it?" 

"With me, or each other?"

Daryl shrugs. "Both?"

Carl sighs, shaking his head in exasperation. "Annoying as hell. Like we're sparring, right? And I signed up for it, but the moment anyone even does this," he taps Daryl on the arm, "they're like _Oh my god are you all right_ for the next ten minutes."

"Well, soon as your punches start connecting, they'll probably ease up on that."

Carl puffs up so blatantly it's hard not to laugh. "Who says they aren't already?" 

"Yeah?"

Carl senses, finally, that Daryl's on the verge of laughing at him, so he reins in the posturing. "Mostly. Still gotta get more power behind them. And kicking's the best way for me to put my own ass on the floor, so it'll be a while there, too."

"Good to know, if you're gonna start cannibalizing everyone."

"Don't worry, I figure Spencer and Paul are going to go first."

It's weird, the way Daryl's thought's stumble at that. The two of them being put in the same box; it just doesn't make sense. "Yeah? Why?"

"Paul apologizes too much, and Spencer's a showoff. Plus they're Admin, you know? Bigger threats." 

He snorts, skeptical. "What're they gonna do, come at you with forms you gotta sign?"

"They got four more years of school, so _they_ get to take the martial arts classes." Carl's gaze locks on him like he knows he's pointing out something that Daryl should already know. 

Daryl frowns; he's never had to think too much about it. But then, suddenly and all at once, he locks onto what Carl's tone and words are getting at. "Techniki kids don't get it."

Carl nods, his mouth a thin line as he intones, "Wouldn't want the grunts getting out of line." 

"That sounds like them." Fucking Admin. "Well, ain't much to be done in Spencer's case, him bein' _him_ and all, but you want, I can tell Rovia to start acting like more of an asshole."

"You think he could manage that?"

It's the easiest question anyone's asked him in months, now. "Not if his life depended on it." 

Carl's studying him closely when he looks back at him. "He put you up to this, isn't he." 

It's not even a question, the way he says it, but it's tripping him up just the same. Not the content, just... what he's supposed to make of Carl asking it, and whether Daryl's supposed to feel one way or the other about answering it. Like there's something behind it, or, more likely, that's right there in front of it, and Daryl's just too blind to see it. 

Still, the truth is the truth, and that, at least, is easy enough. "Think he was worried he'd say the wrong thing."

"That sounds like him." 

"Yeah."

Carl scrutinizes him for another long moment, though Daryl knows he probably doesn't really need to be this relieved when he finally relents with a nod. "All right," he says, "I won't eat him." 

"Okay," Daryl says, not even caring he's pretty sure he's lost the thread somewhere. "That's good." 

Carl flops back down on his bed, craning his neck to look at him as he stretches. "Are you gonna come down tomorrow night and throw down?"

He shrugs, taking half a step towards the door, catching on that Carl's ready for him to leave. "The training part, sure. Anything more'n that, I'm out."

"You sure? The winner gets the loser's shower time."

"That's just nasty."

"Yeah," Carl says. "For the _loser_."

"And the rest of us stuck in this tin can with them."

"Sure, like _you_ could tell."

He salutes him with a middle finger on his way out the door. 

Rick, he's pretty sure, would be on board with it.


	20. Chapter 20

_Thursday, 07/28/2194, 20:13_

"Okay, again, only...yeah, turn this way so's they can see." Mitch grabs Paul's shoulder to shift him around; Daryl circles back into position across from him on the mat. "And go a bit faster."

Resetting his footing, Paul gets ready to swing his elbow up. When the strike comes, Daryl telegraphs plainly enough that Paul has no trouble countering with the forearm block, deflecting his momentum, but that's the end of it. Instead of countering, they trade off, and go again. Faster this time. 

"Like that," Mitch tells Sasha, on the other side of the mat, wrangling her arm up into the starting position while Carl watches, ready to strike. "Start with your hand up by your ear, then sweep in with the elbow. Start slow." 

The two of them nod and square up; Paul turns back to Daryl.

"All right, you block, then follow up this time?"

Daryl shakes his sweaty hair out of his face. "Might's well."

They trade blows and pull punches for a while, and after a few minutes and a few footing reminders from Mitch, they're fighting closely enough that whatever advantage Daryl's telegraphing had given Paul is gone, and for someone who'd spent the first five minutes grumbling about how much easier it is just to find a weapon and be _done_ with it, Daryl seems to be relaxing into it, at least a little. 

Even if his blocks are getting cleaner, Daryl's still not particularly graceful about any of it. Paul's not about to say it, but half of his effort is spent sidestepping to avoid them both tripping over Daryl's socked feet. 

When Dwight comes down the steps, Sasha taps out, clapping Spencer on the arm as she makes her way towards the door.

"What," Spencer pretends mock offense. "You're sure you don't want to try for the crown?"

"You sure you want to deal with a Laura who's been stuck doing overtime on the bridge?"

"Good point," he mugs, then turns to the rest of them. "What about you all? Any takers? Dwight?"

"Ha." Dwight shakes his head, snorting. 

"Daryl?"

"Ah. Nah, man, 'm good."

"What? No, come on!" Carl groans from where he's cooling off on the side of the mat. "You have to."

Daryl's eyes narrow as he glances out towards the stairs. "Ain't interested."

"Aww, Daryl," Spencer wheedles, only something in his tone isn't quite as amusing as it had been a minute ago, and he's stepping up into Daryl's space, goading him deliberately. "Come on, it would be nice to have some fresh blood on the floor."

Daryl shakes his head, but there's something too real in his smirk. "Keep talkin' like that, it's just gonna be yours. But nah. Ain't interested."

Carl and Mitch and Dwight are all watching apprehensively, now, and the odds that the posturing won't escalate are dwindling.

"My bad." Spencer raises his hands imperiously, but doesn't back off. 

He's about to get hit. Sucker-punched right in the face, most likely, so Paul steps forward, telling himself, _yeah, really_. With this whole sparring-slash-fight-club thing, something like this was probably inevitable. 

"I'm in," he says.

Spencer's been hogging the showers anyway. 

\--- 

It takes a while for him to think past the tension in his jaw, to relax enough to pay any real attention at all. For a minute, he just waits, sure that the other shoe's going to drop and that this is going to turn into something ugly. 

Ain't like he didn't know what he was coming down here for, but throwing punches ain't his idea of fun even when it's actually necessary. 

Rovia and Spencer fight the same; that's all Daryl really notices at first. 

But both of them are grinning as they jab and punch and block and kick. Spencer's is snider; at the end of the day, Daryl figures there'll always be some part of him that always looks smug and irritating. Watching him smirk at Rovia, Daryl figures that Spencer _knows_ he looks like an asshole, and that he knows how to use it to his advantage. 

Rovia, on the other hand, looks like he's just enjoying the _hell_ out of this, and that, more than anything, is what cuts through the irritable _whatever-the-fuck_ that's clouding Daryl's head. After a few minutes, watching from the sidelines as the two of them twist and punch and kick each other all over the mat, he realizes he's mirroring Carl, leaning this way and that to keep a better eye on it. 

He ain't shouting _nearly_ as much, though; it's got to be some instinctual thing, for teenagers to shout at the top of their lungs for no goddamned reason at all. Mitch, at least, still seems to be intent on trying to maintain some level of cargo-fight professionalism, reminding _both_ of the fighters to get their arms up or plant their feet whenever he feels the need. Dwight's spending as much time watching Mitch for cues as he is the two of them. 

Spencer's got more reach, and he's better at keeping his footing, but Rovia's faster, and he's able to get distance when he needs to. 

He watches Rovia deflect a punch, then grab Spencer's arm as it passes down by his hip, and then-

-too quick to see, he's twisting in _mid-air_ , and Spencer's falling forward, just barely getting his hands out in front of him in time to stop himself from smashing his face into the mat. 

"You good?" Rovia frowns, panting and concerned, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his thermals as he crouches down to check on him.

It's the kind of stupid mistake that only someone with Proper Kung Fu Training at _college_ would make; the head-butt to the jaw is so predictable that Daryl's not certain he hadn't just imagined it until Mitch is diving in to separate the two of them. 

"Holy shit!" Prodding at the back of his head with his hand, Spencer half-laughs, eyes wide and surprised at Rovia's equally stunned expression. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- you okay?"

Rovia blinks, batting Mitch's hands away, and clambers up to his feet. He's dazed at the very least, but he's nodding. Daryl can see him swallowing thickly- blood, maybe, if he'd bit his tongue- and shaking his head, trying to clear it. Through it all, he's got his hands up and a placating grin on his face, even as he gestures towards the infirmary apologetically. _No harm done, shit happens_. 

"I gotta-" his teeth are clenched, when he speaks, though, and he's pale when he turns to head to the infirmary. 

"Nice one," Dwight mutters at Spencer. "It's a draw, by the way."

"I didn't mean to-" Spencer frowns, shaking his head back at him. "Uh. Yeah, that was..." When he notices Daryl heading after Rovia, he calls out, "Daryl, hey, you want to tell him he can have my minutes? Don't know if it'll make it right but..."

Daryl nods. It's the least the idiot could do. Accident or not. 

Stepping out of the hold, he stops outside of the medbay and watches Rovia making weird open-mouthed expressions at his reflection in the reflector mirror he's pulled out of the surgical rig; it's a weird angle, sending him off balance, and for the second time in five minutes, Daryl can see what's going to happen before it actually does. 

Rovia does stumble, though he catches himself on the wall next to the stasis chamber; his elbow or knee hits it sharply enough that it rattles the shelves next to him. 

"You all right?"

"Yeah," Rovia shrugs irritably as he rolls his shoulder away from the wall and finds his footing. "Think I just bit-" he cuts himself off so suddenly, like maybe he's just realized a chipped tooth or nausea or something- that Daryl just waits and watches as his eyes go wide and-

"Fuck." 

-there it is. 

Only Rovia's slapping at the _wall_ , and then he's jumping away from it, looking behind him, and Daryl can't see what's going on, but by the time it occurs to him to go in and check, the emergency klaxons start sounding, and the medbay door's slamming shut. The control panel is useless. He punches at it anyway, because the _fire protocol engaged_ alert flashing above the keyboard has got to be a glitch. 

It's got to be.

\--- 

_Thursday, 07/28/2194, 21:11_

The emergency lights are strobing in time to the blaring klaxons and for a moment, he can't see, can't make sense of _anything_ , but as he backs away, heading for the door, he can see it. 

The wall panel next to the stasis chamber is discolored, and then it's melting. 

_Fire_. 

Hence the alarms and the lights. 

And the door, he realizes, turning back towards it, dread already lodged in his gut. Daryl's on the other side of the thick plastiglass window, angrily fighting with something on the other side. 

It's the door controls. Paul only realizes this when they don't work for him, either. 

Daryl's shouting over his shoulder; behind him there's movement in the corridor, someone else is rushing up the ladder. He can't hear a thing; sensory overload, maybe. 

He's getting dizzy.

Mitch's profile shoves into view for a minute, and then away again, and finally, the noise stops. 

He takes a breath. Tries to take a deeper breath. His ears pop. 

He's panicking, he realizes, almost serenely.

If the fire goes out, the alarms should shut off. At least he hopes so. 

The fire's not even large; it's not even- it's actually _smaller_ than he'd thought it was.

No, it's warm in here. He goes to the sink, wondering how much worse water will make things; it's probably not going to do the circuitry any favors, but it's not as if doing nothing is a real option. He's filling a bowl from the shelf when suddenly he hears it. 

Shouting. 

Thinking that the door's opened, he turns, only to find it still shut and Daryl pounding on the window. It's just the klaxons that have cut off, and the hiss of a comms channel is filling the space. There's another hiss, underneath it, that he can't quite make sense of. 

"Gotta get air, _now_ "

He blinks; there are spots in his eyes. He can't make out what Daryl's gesturing at- the wall maybe, or the cargo bay.

" _Paul!_ Dammit, the emergency tanks, wall panel, _now!_ "

Now he's pointing in at the ceiling. Nothing there, just the vents. 

_Oh_.

That would explain it. Where the air's all gone. 

Dropping the bowl in the sink, he moves- more heavily and slowly than he means to- towards the door. It's dark in here, even with the strobing lights. Like everything's just been reduced to a red-bathed series of unreal pictures. 

Air. There's no air in here. 

He's suffocating and he's sluggish. He's distracted enough by how unfair the combination is that it's not until he's gotten to the door, risking a glance at Daryl through the window, that the fear actually sets in. 

His hands are clumsy. He feels nauseas, like he's going to pass out. Everything hurts and the latch for the emergency tank hutch on the wall above the control panel is too small, too _finicky_ to-

-he's got it. The tank, the tube, the mouthpiece.

He doesn't. It's falling, the tube slipping through numb fingers, and he doesn't catch it, but he's catching up _to_ it and once he's on the floor, he can't see a thing. Closing his eyes is more of a respite than it should be.

He's dimly aware of his hands finding something. The tube, again, and that end's the tank. If he follows it back... 

Yes, _that_.

He gets it over his face. Upside down at first, and then, somehow, not, and there's a switch, somewhere, there _ought to be a switch_ , on the side of the mask, and-

Something gives, underneath his thumb, and there's hair in his mouth and _air_ , finally. Cold and metal, searing his throat and burning his lungs, but he takes another breath anyway. 

He's still dizzy. But he's breathing. 

He opens his eyes; he doesn't have the energy to raise his arm enough to get the strap around his head, so he braces his face against the mask against the inside of his arm, and tries not to move. 

In between the emergency-red flashes, he can just make out the fire glowing in the wall. 

It's fading. Or maybe _he_ is; he doesn't really know.


	21. Chapter 21

_Thursday, 07/28/2194, 21:29_

Paul thinks he passes out. He must though, because in between one blink and the next, his head is throbbing, his face hurts, he tastes blood. The room is dark, then red, then dark, then red again. The floor is cool, though, and solid beneath him. There's plastic wedged into his cheek- the mask- but it's not sealed. Everything aches; one of his legs is completely numb. 

He can't remember injuring it. It's got to still be there. Checking, however, is an awkward maneuver. Bringing his shoulder up, keeping the mask in place while he pats around searching out the strap to pull it over his head. Once it's secured, he rolls to the side;

His foot drops from where it had been propped, apparently, against the frame of the door. It doesn't hurt when it hits the floor. Then the pins and needles set in. 

He rolls over the rest of the way, onto his back, and tries to swallow- he's _thirsty_. He closes his eyes against the strobing lights and thinks, maybe, it's just better to go back to sleep. 

Something shifting along his knuckles prompts him to open his eyes again. The lights are off, now. No flashing red. 

Either the emergency is over, or there's no one left on board to warn. 

The thought doesn't have enough time to settle, though; there's a hand on his shoulder, running down to his elbow, and a blur is leaning over him. 

" _Rovia_ ," Daryl's saying. For at least the second time. "Rovia, you hear me?"

There's something under his shoulder, and as soon as he realizes he's being wedged up, the rest of his executive function returns, and he shoves himself against it, bracing his feet against the floor, weaker than he wants to be. It's apparently enough, though, because the world swims, for a moment, and he realizes he's sitting up. 

"You're good, you're good." Daryl's saying, and then he's saying something else that Paul can't really track. There's movement, and the side of his head's being prodded, and the mask's coming off so he makes a grab for it, but someone's got his hands. 

"Rovia, hey." Mitch is saying- Mitch is crouching in front of him, now. "It's okay. Air's good now, you're all right."

Right. Of course. 

He releases his hold, and the mask comes off, and he lets his head fall back. Against Daryl's shoulder, as it turns out, and it's comfortable enough that he thinks, dimly, that he should be appreciating it more. 

For a few minutes, he just breathes foul-smelling air. Burnt plastic and seared metal. 

He tries to focus, tries to pay attention. Mitch, still in his socks, and Dwight are stepping over their legs, surveying the damage to the wall; out in the corridor, Carl's talking with the bridge; Sasha's saying something back that's too muddy to hear, but Carl edges into the doorway a moment later. 

He blinks, reluctantly aware that in a minute, he's going to need to start thinking about standing up. Doing something. Finding out what happened, how the fire started. Start sorting out the repair queue. He'd been right there when it had started, though, and hadn't seen a thing. Looking at a melted wall isn't going to do him much good. 

"You all right?"

"Yeah." He shifts experimentally, just to show that he could move, if he wanted to. "Nothing a trip to the infirmary wouldn't fix." For some reason, it strikes him as hilarious, even if his laughter sounds- and feels- wheezier than it should be. It makes him want to cough, but he chokes it down. 

"Too soon, man." Daryl's arm tightens around his back, just for a second, and Paul feels the raw rumble of the words as much as he hears them. 

He doesn't, he realizes- with more clarity of thought than he's been able to muster in a while, now- want to turn his head the fifteen or so degrees that would allow him to get a read on Daryl's expression. The hug's weird enough, even if it is a result of their awkward sprawl in the doorway. 

Mitch and Dwight are shoving the surgical rig back into place; the wall by the baseplate is warped, though, causing it to hang at an awkward angle. Daryl's squeezes his shoulder again to get his attention. "Should probably get out of the way."

Carl snaps to attention at that, rocking back on his heels and then standing to help him up, moving easily enough that Paul finds himself resenting the _hell_ out of it a few moments later. The stretch feels good, though. 

He's acutely aware of Daryl and Carl behind him; he's got a definite suspicion that they're spotting his progress up the ladder. 

The fact that it might be _needed_ , when he makes the mistake of glancing down, is enough to keep his mouth shut. 

Carl's already edging past them by the time they're halfway to his quarters. "Want some water or anything?" 

"That would be great, thanks."

He's back a moment later, handing a bottle over and having a silent- if brief- conversation with Daryl before he heads back downstairs. 

"Spencer said you can have his shower time," Daryl shrugs from the doorway as Paul eases himself into the chair. The bed will still be there in ten minutes, but he'll appreciate it more once he's changed clothes. "Think he felt bad."

At that, Paul's pretty sure his mouth starts hurting again, as if it's just been waiting for him to remember it was there before making itself known. He downs some of the water, grabs a washrag from the rack, dampens it, and drags it over his face. No blood on it, when he pulls it away. The rest of him feels like gritty dried sweat. "Tell him I'll happily take him up on that offer."

It's so _mundane_ , is his first thought. And his second- the one that sends him reeling, like when he looks out the window and forgets there's several inches of plastiglass between him and _nothing_ \- is that he has no idea how long ago it happened. It seems like ages. Hours at least.

Daryl's still leaning in the doorway, chewing on a hangnail like he doesn't know what else to do with himself, so he asks. "How long was I out?"

"Maybe thirty seconds for the room to vent, then it had to hold for a while before Sasha could override the controls to get the door open." He glances at the clock on the control panel. "I dunno. Ten minutes?"

"She overrode the controls?" 

"Yeah."

The failsafes are there for a reason; he'd pored over all of them with Eugene not all that long ago. Venting the room of all flammable gas is only the first part of it; _not_ reintroducing oxygen prematurely is the rest. A room that size, according to the protocols, should be registering nothing at all for at least an hour- maybe two- before putting the air back in.

He gets up, pulling his socks off and shoving them into the laundry bag while deciding just how big a deal he should be making of it. "Could've started the whole thing going again."

"Yeah." Daryl looks like he's going to argue, but evidently he thinks better of it; for a moment the word just hangs in there in the air, which is probably supposed to be more breathable than it seems. 

He shoves the laundry bag back up onto the top bunk, and starts wondering how long it will take for Daryl to leave him to get started whatever freakout is bearing down on him in peace. "Just, next time... the system's set up that way for a reason. Might want to tell her that, is all I'm saying." 

...and now he's complaining about a breach in protocol that might've saved his life. Great. 

He's not dead, so there's no need for him to be an asshole about it. 

It's just that he's realizing that the tremors are trying to set in, and maintaining his precarious foothold against them is so damned _frustrating_. 

He doesn't even know for sure when it had started, but it's been creeping up from his hands to his arms ever since the ladder, when he'd glanced down and caught sight of the tank still lying there, just inside the medbay door. 

Maybe he just would've passed out. Maybe not. 

Right there on the floor.

He'd thought the feeling would abate once he'd reached his room, but he's been feeling it crawling around in his chest this whole time. It's stupid; he can't think of a good reason _why_ he should start sobbing, but it's starting to look inevitable anyway. 

He takes a breath- his throat's still raw, but at least it doesn't sound shaky- and swallows it all down. 

The sound of the door closing prompts him to turn around, and the sight of Daryl standing right behind him, looking worn out and angry, like he's going to start a fight, is enough to steel his resolve. 

At least it is until Daryl, face unreadable, gestures at him. "C'mere." 

He doesn't realize he hasn't actually stopped shaking until Daryl's got his arms around him, tight and deliberate enough that it's impossible that he's not registering the tremors, so he slides his hands around Daryl's side, half-hoping to distract him. 

Because yeah. He's just humoring him, here. 

"You want to be pissed, leave Sasha out of it." Daryl says, without letting go. "I'm the one who told her to override the controls, all right?"

Later, he'll be slightly mortified at how obviously he relaxes. The tension sinks out of him so quickly that he finds himself lurching, so he covers it with a scoff. "You _saw_ me grab the mask."

"I _saw_ you go down and not get back up." Daryl sighs, and loosens his hold. There's not much room for either of them to step back, but he's got a grin slashed across his face. "So _next time_ , keep the basic safety procedures in mind, you fuckin' prick."


	22. Chapter 22

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 03:46_

For as small as the fire had seemed on the outside, behind the wall it had been another story. Besides fucking with the electronics, it had melted the insulation into plastic that had solidified all over everything. 

The cold's leaching through fast enough that by the time he and Mitch rip out the wall panels to chase the edges, and install a temporary patch over it, his hands are cold-stiff and clumsy. His brain ain't doin' much better.

It's just as well that Sasha, hands pressed under her arms for warmth as she swivels her head lamp to look at the two-by-four patch on the wall, is directing most of her questions at Mitch.

"What're we looking at?"

"The insulation is pretty much melted all over everything in there, so we haven't figured what caused the fire, yet. Probably a fuse. Got the patch up all over everything for now though, so it should start warming up when the power comes back on. We'll just need to keep it sealed until then. The patch is temporary for the time being, until we can get everything dug out and rebuilt. On the bright side, as far as we can tell, the interior hull itself sustained no damage."

"I'd feel better after an exterior visual examination, just to be sure."

Mitch is already nodding along, rubbing a tired hand over his face as he regards the pile of debris they've mostly got kicked to the middle of the room. There's not one of them in there that ain't awake on anything more than sheer willpower alone. "Once everyone's slept. Nobody's in shape for that right now. And there's another problem we probably need to address sooner rather than later."

"What's that?"

"The stasis chamber is fucked," Daryl says, turning his head so his light illuminates the awkward patch job they'd had to rig in the corner, because none of the panels or parts they pulled out of the mess make any sense, out of context. "So is the surgical bot. Had to dismantle it to chase the burn back. Bunch of insulation melted down into the mount, and it's gonna take a while to get it cleaned out without damaging the insulation even more."

"Shit."

He's wishing he had better news for her. "Ain't all of it. Bunch of fumes and smoke traveled along the wall." He gestures along the dirty wall to point at the cabinets on the other side of the room. "Started leaking out into the medicine cabinets, too. Everything _looks_ all right, but I dunno how we're gonna tell."

"On the bright side," Mitch says, "as far as I can tell, we've still got backup in cold storage for pretty much everything, knock on wood."

"I'd love to, you mind pointing me in a direction to find some?" Sasha huffs out a tired, resigned laugh and straightens up. "Okay, Mitch? If the routing's clear, I want us on autopilot over breakfast so we can all talk priorities and scheduling. In the meantime, you two try and get some sleep. Dwight and Laura are both up on the bridge, they'll let us know if anything's on fire. All puns intended."

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 07:10_

The blanket's come down from the window; he thinks he'd dragged it over himself in his sleep. It's the closest thing to evidence that he'd gotten any at all. 

Adrenaline and nerves and listening to the sounds of the medbay walls being pulled apart all night had probably kept everyone else awake, too. The sore throat makes sense, as does the itchy thickness of his tongue, but he doesn't know why he's so damned _achy_ as he drags himself out of bed and into the corridor; the combination makes him feel like he's caught a case of Resupply Flu. 

He must look like it too, because when Spencer ducks his head out of the kitchen to look at him, he grimaces at the sight of him. 

"Hey, Paul. I'm sorry about last night. Got carried away." Blinking, he seems to register Paul's appearance for the first time; guilt isn't a good look on him. "Uh, I know it won't fix anything, but if it helps, you can take my shower time today."

"It's fine." 

"Sure, getting stuck in a vacuum on account of me being an idiot is completely acceptable. You look like hell." Spencer glances back at whatever he's got cooking. It smells like food, and is completely unappetizing, but beyond that, Paul's got no idea. 

Paul shrugs. On top of everything else, he doesn't particularly want to drag the conversation out, and if he can get in there and pull himself together before everyone else gets up, maybe he can forestall more of the same from everyone else. So he musters a grin that he's really not feeling. "Yeah, well. I appreciate the offer enough to take you up on it. Thanks."

"No problem, like I said-"

Paul shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Besides. I'm the idiot who tripped into the wall panel. Started the whole thing."

Spencer's eyebrow quirks skeptically "All right, I won't worry about the fact that one good jostling is all that stands between us and a fiery death. Sounds good."

The oven's beeping; the sound of it is more grating that it ought to be, so Paul backs towards the bathroom. "Guess we'll see what's what once everyone's checked in." 

"Yeah."

\--- 

Throwing his clothes in the laundry unit, he gets into the shower. The water's never quite as hot as it needs to be, but once he's cleaned up, he just gets to start it again and _stand_ there. Any other day, it would feel amazing; for now, he's forced to admit, it just feels better than nothing. 

Still, getting out, he's a little less sore, a little more awake, and the humidity feels almost good in his lungs, though it doesn't last once the dehumidifier cycle kicks in as he's drying off. Looking in the mirror, he's a little surprised to see that he looks the same as he did yesterday. The lights in here always make everyone look like they're slightly dead.

The laundry unit pings that his laundry's dry, and rather than changing into the change of clothes he'd brought with him as usual, he changes back into yesterday's clothes. Powered by filtered heat exhaust, just-dried laundry is usually too hot to even handle comfortably; today, he could use the extra heat. 

He thinks today it might be worth shaving, but by the time he's got his hair combed out and his teeth brushed, and facing the prospect of sitting down at breakfast with whoever's out there and figuring out what comes next, he's lost what little energy he's regained, so it's going to have to wait. 

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 07:53_

"…so for now, the infirmary's out of commission, and we have no stasis. We also should assume that all of the medicine in the cabinets is trashed, and now that the power's been out for several hours, everything we had in cold storage in there is probably toast."

There's a long pause before Carl asks, "Do we know what started the fire?"

Daryl figures his silence is answer enough, but Mitch takes it upon himself to translate for everyone's else's benefit. "Pretty much."

"I wasn't seeing anything useful from any of the sensors so far; I'm guessing more than one of them is fried. Go figure."

Nobody seems to know where to go from there, but everyone's staring at them like they're waiting for more, so Daryl adds, "Probably won't know for sure, until we get in there, dig the insulation back. I'm guessin' we'll have something to go off of then." Daryl raises his eyebrows over at Dwight. "Gonna need you on hand for that, though."

And maybe a sealsuit, if he's going to be stuck back in there breathin' all that shit in. Though clean air probably ain't worth the questions it would raise; it ain't like it's a big deal. He just doesn't like the smell of things burning that shouldn't be, and now that he doesn't have anything to _do_ , he's becoming aware of it permeating the medbay.

When the house'd burned down, the neighborhood had smelled like it for days, at least until they'd work out their welcome over at the Sawyers' place and had moved out to the cabin. Burnt insulation and treated wood. All sorts of mold settling in underneath a thick unpleasant tang of fried wires and melted pipes. 

The smell in the medbay hadn't been the same, but enough of it's bled up here that the notion of digging into his breakfast isn't one worth contemplating. 

Rovia's got his tablet out; he hasn't said anything at all yet this morning, and Daryl's starting to wonder if it's because he actually can't, or if he just ain't feelin' like it. Either way, he looks like hell. Like the only thing keeping him awake is prodding at his tablet, reprioritizing the job queue. 

"All right," Sasha says, with just enough weight in her words that everyone's attention moves to her. "Here's what I figure we've got on the docket. Daryl and Dwight, when you're ready, we need you back in there to figure out what happened, get started on the wiring, and getting everything back together as much as you can. I'm a little concerned that reverting power to the medbay might make things worse, so check everything twice and keep me informed, all right?"

"Sure thing," Dwight says; Daryl just nods. 

"Everyone else, we're going to need help sorting through the debris. Some of it, we'll have to toss, but not all of it. We'll replace or fix what we can, and toss what we can't. In the meantime, Mitch? Laura? I want you two to get prepped for an external hull check. The pressure sensors aren't picking anything up, but it could be that one or two may have been damaged."

Rovia's working on his tablet, rushing to get it all down; he looks frustrated enough that Sasha stops what she's saying to look at him; Rovia's the only one at the table who doesn't notice. 

"Paul, once we're done here, you should probably go get some more sleep."

"Huh?"

It's hard to tell if he sounds hoarse, or, if given the flash of irritation that he's quick to smother, he just doesn't want the attention. Sasha's either expecting it, or ignoring it, because she continues on smoothly. "You've been through the ringer, and you're up on the overnight tonight anyway. We'll handle this in the meantime."

Rovia nods without looking up, and the spike of irritation Daryl has to swallow doesn't go down smooth.

It's bad enough, figuring you're useless. It's worse when someone else does. 

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 12:02_

The medbay is a little warmer than it had been last night, though that's not saying much; the patch is doing it's job, but the temporary seal they've put on it is useless so far as insulation goes. It's delicate work, breaking things, and it doesn't lend itself to moving around enough to keep warm. Whenever he turns his head, he can catch his breath in the glare from his headlamp. 

Dwight's not complaining, though, as he works on the wiring a few feet over, so he ain't about to start. 

"You think we're gonna be able to salvage any of this?"

It's not the first time Dwight's asked, and the answer keeps switching back and forth anyway. A lot of what they're pulling out is just melted insulation; some of it's actually part of the stasis housing, though, and working around the surgical bot arm is just making it even more complicated. 

"Maybe. It's mostly plastic." 

But it's not _only_ plastic, and the bits and pieces of metal and wire that he's working out of the mess don't look familiar enough to even guess at. 

Setting the mask back over his face, he uses the heat gun to re-melt the plastic to get at the corner of metal that's sticking out at a strange angle, alarmingly close to one of the stasis chamber control boxes. Once they get this part removed, they can start going at it with the blades and picks, since it won't bring their entire patch job down with it. 

Keeping the heat gun trained, carefully away from the insulation patch, he scrapes the gummy plastic back as best he can; eventually it starts paying off. The metal corner turns out to be the edge of a control box.

"You find anything yet?"

"Too soon to tell."

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 16:45_

Removing the stasis bot takes most of the morning. After breaking for lunch, dismantling the top half stasis chamber just so they've got enough room to work takes most of the afternoon, and it's already looking like the base is going to have to go as well, at least as long as they keep finding more damage. Daryl hadn't even been able to start digging out the melted insulation until an hour ago, and with the awkward angle in the corner, it's been going slowly.

 _Finally_ , though, something's coming up. "Think I got something," he says, unable to help the grin Some archaeologist somewhere might've had a better way of going about it than just hitting it with a wrench handle and twisting, but he's working _something_ out of the mottled gray-brown plastic. It's cylindrical, too large to be a capacitor, too out-of-place to be a can.

At first, it's just loose. Then there's a splintering, and the grind of glass, and it's coming free so quickly and suddenly that he nearly drops it. 

"What is it?"

"Dunno." Daryl twists, showing him the broken cylinder. "Looks like a jar." Jagged glass fragments are still stuck to the grimy metal lid; glancing inside, he sees the threading is locked. Not meant to be opened- at least not from this end, once attached. 

"Lemme see it."

He hands it back gingerly, then shines his light down into the oddly perfect circular it had left in the plastic. Inside, there's just more glass, and some dust at the bottom, but no way of seeing, yet, how it connected into anything. "It's probably about nine or ten inches long. No idea what it is. You still got the schematics up?" 

"Yeah." Dwight sets the broken jar down on the counter, and drags his tablet out of his pocket, cursing to himself as it slowly wakes. "Cold's killing the battery, I swear it."

Daryl nods; he'd already had to go back upstairs and put his on the charger. In the meantime, he goes back to the plastic, slicing down the thinnest wall he can find, chasing down the end of it. It's faster going, now that he can see what he's looking at. He's gone down as far as he dares when Dwight snorts. 

"Nothing on the bot's schematic."

"Maybe it's part of the stasis setup?"

"Yeah," Dwight says distractedly, already on it, so Daryl starts on the second cut, stopping when he hears glass breaking, then cutting across, then back up, widening the gap as he goes, until he has enough room to get in there and try prying the bottom of the jar out. 

The plastic is just flexible to let him, but not enough to make it easy; down here, it's hardened down inside of the glass.

"Nothing on the stasis chamber either," Dwight says, but by now, Daryl's really not surprised. The metal he's found is coming up, slowly but surely, and it doesn't feel like anything besides friction is holding it back. 

Changing the angle, just in case it flips out and flings glass dust in his face, he works it out another half centimeter, knocking some of the looser glass back into the metal base. Another centimeter, and he's able to grab the rim with the pliers. More glass and debris falls back into the hole, but he's got another lid. 

The hacked-up chunk of plastic is too gouged up to see whether there'd been a seam, but it ain't as if two jars make any more sense than one does. 

"What d'you think?"

"No idea."

He passes the other lid over. "Could've been part of the retrofitting."

"Probably." Dwight's peering intently at the top of the lid, rubbing it on his sleeve, sending another shower of glass-dust and god-knows-what to the floor. And then he goes at it with his gloves, more intently.

"What's up?"

"Uh. Got something here. Metal's been stamped. Etched, whatever."

"Asset tag?"

"Whatever it is, it's useless now." Dwight shrugs, setting it down next to the other one, in the growing spread of melted-or-otherwise-damaged-beyond-all-recognition crap they'll have to ask about later. "You get far enough for me to start in on the lower paneling yet?"

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 19:00_

The fact that they've got fresh greens and almost-ripe berries at dinner is probably more about morale than it is about the plants actually being ready to harvest, but Daryl holds his tongue, and listens to Dwight inform the crew that they ain't found shit, yet, and still have nothing at all resembling a cause. 

"It does look like we found the worst of it, at least. Looks like it started behind the base of the surgical bot. Only trouble is, there's at least three kinds of plastic that got melted together down there and getting through it without breaking things _more_ has made for slow going."

Rovia looks better than he had this morning. More awake, at any rate, though that ain't saying much. "You think you'll know tomorrow?"

"Probably sooner rather than later."

Dwight sounds hopeful enough that Daryl's wondering, cynically, what kind of fumes he'd inhaled, but he's too tired and sore to bring it up. 

Dwight knows where the anaprox backstock is if he needs it. 

\--- 

After dinner, Daryl hauls the box of crap they'd extracted from the wall out to the workbench, and immediately loses all interest in cleaning it up when he realizes the sheer scope of the damage the seemingly small fire had caused. The workbench is covered, and some larger pieces are piled up next to the wall panels leaning against it. He doesn't even know where to start. 

Whatever. 

Laura and Sasha said they'd get to work sorting it all out in the morning anyway. 

Admitting defeat, he heads back upstairs, grabs a change of clothes, and heads for the showers. Spencer, Dwight, and Mitch are playing cards in the commons, but he ain't feeling like joining in, and doesn't feel like drinking. Or company. 

He does feel a little better once the grit that's been grinding into his skin all day is gone, but not enough to try playing catch-up. Dwight and Mitch are clearly already drunk, talking all over each other in their efforts to explain some strip dish they'd either both loved or both really hated. 

Back in his bunk, it takes a while for him to stop running in circles trying to make sense of the garbage that's currently waiting down on his workbench, but he does manage to zone out for a few hours, staring out the windows until he's bored with trying to convince himself that he's seeing anything at all. 

\--- 

_Friday, 07/29/2194, 23:33_

At this point, they've slowed their progress that they'll have gained a full twenty-four hours in range of the relay station, even accounting for inertia, but he does the math again, mostly because the program's already up, and it's been re-calculated by everyone who's sat in this chair for the past five days at least. 

Gotta stay awake somehow, after all. Out of spite, if need be. Everyone should be asleep in an hour or so; he can sneak an autopilot and run down to the cargo bay for some caffeine pills, if it comes down to it.

There's a possibility that the comms message from Sasha, informing him that he can ping her quarters if he needs her to take over, is still rankling him, good intentions or no. So maybe he's a little more relieved at the coffee cup that's thrust into his face as Daryl climbs up onto the bridge than he needs to be. 

"Holy shit, thank you."

"It's reheated," Daryl warns him. "From this morning."

"I seriously don't care."

"You feelin' better?"

"Yeah," Paul says, adjusting the long range sensors as Daryl sits down. "Took while, but I managed to crash out for a few hours. Sorry I missed out on all the fun."

"Y'ain't missed shit. Still got a pile of crap to go through tomorrow, and we still ain't got a clue." Daryl pokes at the co-pilot's controls, dimming his display's brightness like he usually does when he wants to stare out the window. "Figure, it's pretty well fucked, so I'm guessing we'll have to cobble some shit together from scratch. Could use an engineer's brain on it, if you got the time."

"Great idea, seeing as how _I_ was the one who signed off on this thing being flightworthy." He can feel Daryl's eyes on him, so he smirks. "Explosive infirmary walls and all."

"Yeah...you might want to leave that out next time around."

"Soon as I figure out how, sure." He sips the coffee. It's warm, burnt, and terrible, and he finishes half of it in one go. "You find out anything more?"

"Nah, was too fried. Figured if I went back to work any more on the stasis chamber, I'd wind up needing it and be shit outta luck."

"Yeah."

Daryl waits until Paul glances at him to shrug. "At least it didn't happen sooner."

"Would've been better if it hadn't happened until, like, the day we landed, but I hear you."

"No, I mean, like, if that freak bullshit happened when Carl was still in there."

He'd thought about that too, not that he'd ever planned on bringing it up. They're still two weeks from the halfway point. If nobody else is talking out loud about the ramifications of having no operational medical facilities, he's not going to be the first. 

"Yeah."

Daryl goes quiet, for a while, and Paul's spent enough time in his head today that he doesn't have much to say either, so he lets it ride. 

"How's yer mouth?"

The question's from so far out of left field that he hadn't seen it coming, and has to bite down on too many easy-but-awkward-as-hell responses. 

"Ugh. Bit my tongue something awful. I'll live. Spencer gave me his shower time this morning, so that kind of helped."

Daryl nods, unsurprised. "You thinkin' about goin' for a rematch next week?"

"Kinda thinking that whole thing might need to be put on hold. At least until the medbay's operational again. And like you said, it's not all hand-to-hand down there. No sense kicking our own asses for nothing. So fair warning, if it comes down to fighting for real, I'm just gonna be hiding behind you."

"You fucking better, 'cause you get killed before we can find someone to talk to, we'll be left with Spencer waving his dick around at the embassy."

"Hey, for all I know, that's just how things are done down there."

"You diggin' on Earthers now?"

"No, I'm just saying. I barely had anything to do with the Council. I mean, some, sure, but it's not like I have _any_ how they operate down there."

"Bureaucracy. It's the same everywhere. You've got the info, then you're halfway there."

The fact that Daryl, of all people, is able to say that so confidently- like he's given it some thought and just knows it for truth- gives him pause.

"We don't _have_ all the info." There. He's said it. " We don't even know what continent we're going to be landing on."

" _Yet_ ," Daryl points out. "Y'ain't reinventing the wheel. Two more relay stations, then we'll be in range. You talk to someone, who points you to someone who will get you talking to like a dozen people before you talk to someone who actually has a clue."

"Yeah, but Spencer, for all his dick waving-"

"-still doesn't have a clue half the damn time. Far as diplomacy goes, the dude's lacking."

"You've got a sense for that sort of thing?"

"I might." He shrugs, smirking, but doesn't elaborate; for all knows, he's just talking for the sake of talking, but Paul finds he doesn't really mind so much. And after another little while, Daryl's yawning, and getting up out of his seat. "Alright, shit. Gonna go crash. You down to come translate garbage back into parts tomorrow?"

"After noon?"

"Sounds good."

Paul gives it a minute, listening to his footsteps fading down the corridor. Then he eases back in his seat, one foot up on the dashboard, and stare out at the stars as they zip in and out of existence. 

By the time he's finished his coffee, he's managed to convince himself that it'll be easy. They'll put the medbay back together- and not need it ever again. They'll hit the midpoint relay in two weeks, and they'll have more info. Another six after that, relay three. 

And after that, Paul lets himself think, maybe they'll even be prepared.


	23. Chapter 23

_Saturday, 07/30/2194, 11:00_

 

For all he knows she's been waiting all morning to hear him getting up

"How's it going?" Sasha cocks her head to the side as she sits down in his room's single chair, smirking ruefully to indicate that she's asking as a friend _first_ , rather than his CO. "On a scale of _we need to shove you under a scanner immediately_ to " _we just kind of nag you for the next few days_ , how're you doing?"

He wishes she'd at least left the door open when she'd come in; the fact that it's not is probably just alerting the entire ship that this, whatever it turns out to be, is a serious matter that needs to be treated delicately. 

She's probably trying to spare his dignity, though it doesn't really feel like it. He needs to shower and brush his teeth, and even though he's only hunching on the edge of the bed because there's no clearance to sit up properly, he's all too aware of his own wilted posture. So he smiles, and shrugs, and pretends he's not aware of any of it. 

He pulls his hair back, wondering if he really wants to ask her if she'd spent all morning waiting outside his door for signs of life so she could corner him. "Kind of tired, but nothing out of the ordinary." 

"So... mentally, emotionally..." she trails off in a tone that _definitely_ has him wishing she'd decided to take the CO route, that her tablet was open and that she was working down a pre-formulated checklist that could be boiled down into something useful. "How're you feeling about everything that happened?" 

The annoying thing is, she'll probably just keep asking until she gets a satisfactory answer. So he's got to come up with one before he's even had his first cup of coffee.

"Think I'm still processing it all," he says with a shrug, which honestly, is the most complete answer he's got for her. A few times, now, the vertiginous sensation of _too close_ has smacked into him sideways, but he's not sure what to do about it, or if something _needs_ to be done about it, or if there's anything they _can_ do about it in the first place. Shoving that in her face isn't going to solve anything, not when she's looking at him like she's locked onto something in his words or in his tone that's got her concerned. "I mean, obviously, I'm glad I'm not dead," he continues. "Keep thinking it should've hit me more than it did, you know?"

"Well, when and if it does, you know where to find me, right?" 

"Yeah, I do. Thanks."

Clearly, though, there's something more on her mind, because she doesn't get up right away. She just sits there, her mouth twisting into a wry grin. 

"What?"

"I dunno," she shrugs. "Weird question- and you don't have to answer, I'm just curious."

"Okay..."

"What was going through your head when it was all going down?"

"Confusion, mostly." Fear as well, though he really only remembers the surprise. It's not like he knows _exactly_ what state he'd been in, lying there on the medbay floor. "That, and irritation."

This surprises her, and not in a good way. "What? Like how?"

"Mostly that with all the noise and flashing lights, I was running around like an idiot with no idea what to do. Though I guess... looking back, the lack of air wasn't helping anything, either." He smirks, because if he does, then she can, too, if she wants to. "Daryl was there, haranguing me into grabbing the emergency tank, so that was a relief."

" _Haranguing_?" This gets an actual laugh out of her, and her shoulders lose some of the tension they've been carrying since she'd come in here. "Yeah, I know, he's such a _nag_."

"No, it's just-"

"I know, I know." She nods, dialing it back. Then she rubs her face and looks at him at him. "Heard you and him up on the bridge again last night."

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." _Again_ , apparently.

"Huh? Oh, it's fine. I was just up reading." She studies for a long moment, and Paul thinks back, trying to remember what, if anything, she could have overheard that could be causing her to give him a look _this_ measured. He wants to wilt under the weight of it. 

"Is that a problem?"

She shakes her head. "Long as you guys aren't skimping out on sleep and wearing yourselves too thin, it's great."

"Okay..." All they're doing is killing insomniac time, he's pretty sure, though he's starting to _expect_ it more often than not. And from a logistical standpoint, that could become a problem. "Are you worried-"

She raises her hands, shaking her head. "Don't look so _worried_ , I'm not ramping up to anything in particular, here. All I'm saying is, I know it's rough and close out here. We've got a _huge_ amount of space out there, and _none_ in here, you know? So. While I'm here, and my door is always open, it's good that you and him are friends."

He's not sure what to say to that. What he lands on, eventually is, "no problem." It comes out weird, though. Like it's just some favor he's doing for her, or like he's just making the best of a bad situation.

"I mean it. We're all kind of thrown together in here, right? I mean, no applications, no screening process to make sure we're compatible, and _no escaping each other_. And I've got to admit, with _that_ , I was worried." 

She's looking pointedly at his hand; he fights the urge to ball it into a fist. 

_He didn't mean to_ , he nearly says, thinking uncomfortably of the abusive behavior PSAs flashing on the vidscreens down on the strip. This isn't _that_. "We talked it out." 

"I know. And I'm not accusing him, or trying to stir up old crap that you've already sorted out. My point was... well, let's just say that I wasn't expecting you and him to be having a lot of conversations."

It's clear, by the way she looks at him, that she's hoping he'll fill in the blanks. It occurs to him- far too late to be of any use- that she probably _is_ angling for something. She just hasn't told him what it is, yet. 

"It's a small ship." 

"I've worked jobs with him where it was just the two of us up on the membrane scaffolding, clipped together for twelve hours straight, and he didn't say a word." 

"To be fair, most of the time, it's me blathering on." 

"That may be, but he still goes up there in the middle of the night to listen."

He nods down at his hands; if the movement shifts his tangled hair into his face, so much the better. 

"Hey, I'm just saying. I know he's not what anyone would call a people person, but even with as fucked up as things are, he's seemed happier than he's been, ever since I've known him. And I'm pretty sure it's not the food and the view that are doing it." 

"Okay." He keeps his tone as neutral as he can. Just because he can't breathe, it doesn't mean she's meaning it the way he's hearing it. 

"Okay nothing," Sasha leans back in her chair, with a definite finality in her tone. "Just take the info and the compliment for what it is." 

He laughs; it's forced, but that's the only way he can shove it up past the embarrassment that's clogging his throat. 

"What?"

He swallows it down and shakes his head. "Nothing." 

"I'm making it sound like the two of you are going to run off and get married, aren't I."

"Kind of." 

Sasha shoots him an apologetic look. "Sorry. But Paul?"

"Hm?"

"You're blushing."


	24. Chapter 24

_Saturday, 07/30/2194, 13:02_

"What the hell is that?"

Carl gives him a grim look over his shoulder. "You really want to know?"

"Shut up," Dwight grumbles, swatting him away from the hotbox. "Ricemeal, strawberries and cocoa powder, mostly."

Daryl can see that. "So what happened to the kitchen?"

" _Shh!_ " Carl shakes his head, and glaces meaningfully up the stairs. "It's-"

"Sasha's birthday," Daryl nods, as if he remembers and hasn't just put two and two together and had it add up to a disgusting looking cake that's getting shoved into the annealer. "Still don't explain why you're doing it _down here_."

Carl gives him a withering look. "She's having a shitty week. It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Only surprise is if it winds up being edible," Dwight allows, straightening up with a self-deprecating smirk. "So, you good to go?"

"Yeah. Soon as you two get the goddamned bakery cleaned up." He tries not to glare too obviously at the mess the two of them had made of the workbench; it ain't like it had been pristine last night, after all, but now there's flour dust all over the goddamned place to boot. 

"Sure thing." Carl nods, and brushes some of it onto the floor. Like nobody's got to sweep around here. 

\---

"I got him started on the control boxes," Dwight's saying five minutes later, pulling the mask over his face as he enters the medbay. The boot is just tall enough that he's swaying, like a pirate with a peg leg. "Figure until we get to the wiring..."

Daryl nods. "Where'd you leave off?"

"Middle section, second panel from the bottom," Dwight points at the wall below the stasis chamber. "Couldn't get it for anything."

There's probably something gluing the panel into place, then, because with the bolts undone, it _should_ come right off. So he's not ready for it when he gives it an experimental shove and the panel falls. Slowly at first, then clattering to the floor. 

"You sure this was the right one?"

Dwight frowns, then shrugs. "Maybe the next one over."

There's nothing much to look at. Just a few cables and a sliver of plastic packaging that could be two weeks or twenty years old. He wipes everything down with a rag- might as well, while they're down here- while Dwight moves on to the next panel; as suspected, it sticks something awful. 

It's not until they've gone two panels out past the other end of the stasis chamber that either of them are convinced that they'd found all the significant damage. 

Crawling back to the wall, they start with the floor panel next to the one they'd taken out yesterday; there's more plastic down here, and a lot more debris. Nothing significant, though, and more importantly, no need to extend the patch job. 

"Why does it smell like...what _is_ that?"

Dwight shakes his head at Rovia, who's just come in, looking equal parts confused and concerned. When Daryl takes his mask off and the chilled air hits his face, he realizes what he's talking about. It doesn't smell _bad_ , just out of place. Kind of sweet, and maybe a little metallic. Hopefully not because of any leftover metal from the jump drive bracket job. 

"It's Sasha's birthday," Daryl nods towards the cargo bay, and Dwight takes it as a cue to go check on his dish. Daryl waits until he's gone to add, "I think it's supposed to be cake."

"And he's... baking it down here because?"

"That's what I said."

Rolling his eyes, Rovia steps back, giving Daryl room to stand up. Surveying the patch job, he crosses his arms and scowls like he's expecting some kind of explanation from the wall.

"Think we got it all," Daryl says, showing him the surgical bot mount, and the last few inches of crud they've yet to work through. "Just, in here, that whole chunk. It's still pretty fucked. Soon as we get that cleared up, though, we can seal up the patch, make it permanent."

"It doesn't look _too_ bad," Rovia says, warily.

"Only 'cause you're not seeing all the crap we already hauled out to the workbench."

Brushing his hands off, he slides the floor panel he'd been checking out back into place. When he turns around again, Rovia's got this expression on his face, as he looks up and around the room, like he's suddenly remembered where he is. 

Daryl figures it makes sense. He'd probably twitchy like that, too, his first time back in a room that had nearly killed him. Ain't no point in drawing a bead on it. 

Besides, after a moment, Rovia snaps out of it, clapping his hands together and rubbing the circulation back into them. "Well, lead the way," he says, brightly. "It's freezing in here." 

\--- 

Carl nods at him while Dwight messes with the annealing unit- usually meant for curing weld jobs.

"How's it going?"

The sigh Carl heaves out is weighty, and he holds up a small metal box, open on one side. Inside is a mess of wires and an even bigger mess of gouged, mottled plastic. Melted insulation, probably. "Slow. _Really_ slow."

Paul's got no idea what the box actually is, which is unfortunate, seeing as how that's the entire reason he's down here, so he pulls his tablet- which he'd forgotten to charge again, go figure- out of his pocket and brings up the schematics. 

"You mind if I mess with it?"

"By all means, _please_ ," Carl says, stepping aside to head over to the storage area where Daryl's rummaging around. 

Swinging the overhead light into place, Paul scans the other debris on the desk. Some of them are obvious enough- torque converters, a cam mount, a warped ring of plastic that's probably one of the ventilation seals- but there are another half dozen components that will take some work.

The best way forward, he figures, is process of elimination. 

All Paul knows for sure is that the thing in his hand is _not_ a motor. 

"You all good down here for a bit?" Dwight asks, stepping backwards towards the door, gesturing at Carl to go with him. "Gotta check with Mitch about something."

"Yeah man, see you," Daryl says, nodding, and Paul follows his lead.

"What's that all about?" he asks, once they've gone.

Daryl shrugs, wiping down the back of the wall panel he's got propped against the side of the workbench. "Party planning? I dunno."

Paul nods. "Cool. Be good to have something to break the monotony."

"Yeah, sure." Scowling, he takes an aggressive swipe at another streak of soot. "We got walls catchin' fire for no goddamn reason and the infirmary turning into a death trap, but it's the _routine_ that's a killer. Let's all fuck off and bake cakes."

And there it is again, the twin sensations of realizing that he'd forgotten about it, and that he's talking about it all wrong. Only when he glances over, Daryl's looking back at him, his mouth tugging into some semblance of a grin.

"Exactly."

\--- 

_Saturday, 07/30/2194, 15:08_

Carl and Dwight have had the fume hood and the fans going for the past hour or so, which Paul only really notices when they're shut off, suddenly. 

Sasha's coming down into the cargo bay a moment later, her frown more curious than concerned.

"It smells weird down here."

He can feel Carl tensing up next to him at the workbench. The cake, which hadn't seemed burnt but might not've cooked through, either, is currently nowhere to be seen; Dwight had squirreled it away into one of the lockdown crates for safekeeping until after dinner. 

All that work hiding it, and he looks like he's about to blow it. 

Daryl steps past her into the room with another damaged floor panel, shaking his head. "Between the melted insulation and the cleaning chemicals, I can't smell a goddamned thing." Sasha accepts it easily enough, shooting Dwight a confused grin on her way to survey the workbench, but for some reason, Paul really hadn't expected Daryl to play along with this whole thing. Maybe he just doesn't want to rush into the delivery of bad news. 

Maybe Paul's projecting. He's _definitely_ about to blow it, staring at Daryl like an idiot while Sasha's waiting for a breakdown.

At least he can get the bad news out of the way before her surprise party. 

"All right. I don't think we're going to be able to figure out how it started from all this, but I'm guessing it was an electrical issue. I _think_ we've identified all the key components, here." Rather than forcing her to look at gnarled plastic and dirty metal, he hands her the list he's been keeping on the tablet; flipping tabs, he brings up the inventory. "And _here's_ what we've got on hand by way of replacement parts."

"That's not a lot."

"No, it's not."

"We're cleaning up what we can," Carl hastens to add, and repeats what Dwight had decided earlier, when he'd come down from whatever surprise party preparations he'd been making up on the bridge. "And some of the parts, we can build from scratch." 

He _doesn't_ , though, continue on to recap Dwight's earlier suggestion that they start cannibalizing the spare probe arms for parts, which is wise. It may yet come up, but it would be getting ahead of themselves, for the time being. 

"There's some stuff we haven't figured out yet." Paul points to the other pile- the broken glass canisters with the metal lids, a chunk of black plastic that had, once they'd gotten into it, proved to be made of wadded up nylon. "I mean, these things over here? They're not showing up in any inventory, schematic, work order, or manual."

After regarding it for a minute, Sasha looks up at Daryl. "Could just be BD." 

He scowls. "What, like Station 3?"

"Or that wall in Tara's room."

Daryl nods, apparently giving it some thought, then shrugs. "Could be."

Shooting Dwight a lost glance, Carl's the first one to break, leaning against the workbench and shaking his hair out of his face. "What are you two on about?"

"Like Bob, last year, when they capped the recycling limits."

Carl nods, because it apparently means something to _him_ , at least; Sasha takes pity on Paul and Dwight. "I mean, I'm not trying to force an explanation onto something without evidence, but sometimes, when people are working on stuff, especially walls or foundations..."

"They pack their garbage in there and seal it up," Carl finishes.

"Builder's debris. You see a lot more of it in the older parts of the city. Wadded up paper, old clothes. All sorts of shit- garbage, really- jammed in and sealed up wherever it won't get snagged by the ventilation system."

"Is that a Technicki thing?"

"No, just a slacker thing," Sasha smirks at Daryl, almost accusingly. "People too lazy to haul their crap over to the composters or recycling stations."

"Yeah, but in the wall of a ship?"

"You were sayin' earlier that there weren't any major renovations to the medbay during the retrofitting," Dwight points out. "Some of that shit could date back to the first build."

"Sure," Paul counters. "But some of that shit caught on fire and nearly killed me, so..."

If he'd been looking to suck all the oxygen out of the room without the aid of a fire suppression system, he'd just found it. 

"Agreed," Sasha's already nodding, easing them past it. "I'd like for us to keep working at this. And while we're at it, it might not be a bad idea to go through and examine parts of the ship that weren't redone during the retrofit. It might've been a fluke- and a dangerous, insane one at that- but if we've got flammable things in the walls, it's not the worst idea to make sure we get them away from the electricals. I'm guessing if we start by checking out gaps in sensor coverage, we might find more."

Daryl's chewing on a hangnail. And truth be told, Paul's not feeling particularly heartened by anything he's hearing, either. 

He'd overseen the retrofitting of this machine. He'd signed off on it being flightworthy. The fact that there could be junk waiting in the walls for an opportunity to screw things up royally is not a comfortable one. And worse, right now it's feeling like an inevitable one.

"You want us to start on it right now?"

"Soon. I want the medbay up and running, as well as it can, as soon as we can. Preferably before we hit Relay Two. How're our meds holding up?"

Sasha moves towards the cold crates, but Dwight intercepts her smoothly. "Nothing's dire yet; we're stocked for a much larger crew. Haven't finished the inventory yet, but I'll have it done tomorrow." He grins at her, a little too earnestly, but he covers pretty well. "Promise." 

\--- 

_Saturday, 07/30/2194, 18:30_

Sasha hadn't been as surprised as she'd pretended, but she'd gone with it, after dinner, when Dwight turned the lights out and Laura'd brought out the cake. Thankfully, she'd brought a fresh bottle of whiskey along with it, which at least helped wash it down. It hadn't been until the music started piping through the comms that it had started resembling anything like a party, though.

Which at least explains why there's a part of him that just wants to chew his own arm off. 

"Fuckin' hate this song," Daryl grumbles at Sasha, leaning to the side so Laura can pour herself another drink. All Daryl knows about it is that the nightclub would have it blasting every Friday at 23:00, like clockwork, and that it sounds like someone had written a complete song on a computer, then taken half of the notes out and made the remaining ones screechier.

"Right, because we all had you pegged as a minimono aficionado," Laura cuts in, bracing herself on his shoulder as she launches herself back towards Spencer and Mitch, resuming their argument. "Bullshit, Mitch. The simulators didn't even have the gravity well patch until '93, there's no _way_ it let you pull that off."

Mitch sputters back at her emphatically, shouting over the music even though he's probably the most sober one here. "The point _is_ -"

"Screw the mission," Sasha agrees, drawing Daryl's attention back. "First thing I'm doing when we get down there is finding some newer stuff for the trip back. Or, hell, maybe we'll get through next week, and NATOPS can burst us a copy of Earth's greatest hits from the last two years."

He doubts it'll be much better, but he can't argue the point. At least the song's fading out now, giving way to a gap that's mostly filled by Spencer's laughter until the next song kicks in. 

It's some guitar thing. He remembers it pouring out of the speakers of that shitty bar down in Clinchfield; he can't remember if he'd actually liked it then, or if it's just a reprieve now. 

He's wondering if that bar is still open. If Sawyer and Jonas are still there, drinkin' themselves blind. Could be the whole area's a ghost town by now. He doesn't much care either way. 

"What about you?" Sasha asks him. 

"Huh?" 

"When we get down there, and wrap everything up. You got any plans?"

"Ain't we got enough to do already?"

"Yeah," Sasha says, swiveling in her seat just loosely enough that Daryl's pretty sure she's feeling the whiskey. "But it could take weeks to talk the powers that be into helping. Could end up with some time on our hands. Figure I might check in with the family, if we got the time."

"Ain't really thought about it." 

"You keep up with anyone back home?"

It ain't been home for a while now, and the jury's still out on whether it ever was, not that he's got any intention of letting the birthday girl follow that thought to it's inevitably depressing conclusion by saying so. "Like how?" 

"I mean like family, friends," she says, completely missing the point. " _Significant others._ " She leans in close, drawling out the last words, because apparently, naggin' on him is the height of entertainment. 

"Been up colonyside for more'n three years," he points out, like she don't already know this. "Soon as we hit the ground, gonna be runnin' our asses off getting Rovia and Spencer to whoever they need to be talkin' to, then getting back." 

"True," she agrees, but then she shrugs. "It doesn't stop people thinkin' about it, though."

"Only 'cause they ain't got enough shit to do."

As if on cue, Dwight steps back into the room and nods at Mitch, who sets his half-finished drink down and goes up to take over on the bridge. 

"All work and no play..." Sasha smirks, and throws back the rest of her drink, standing up, she grabs the bottle.

Rovia, who'd probably overheard his name bein' mentioned, looks up from _whatever_ it is that he and carl are engineering out of mushed up leftover cake. Nobody'd been really intent on taking more than a polite stab at eating the damn disgusting thing, so at least it's getting put to use. "What's she on about?"

Daryl watches Sasha intercept Dwight, handing him a glass. She looks happy. Like for once, none of the bullshit's sittin' on her shoulders. 

"No fucking clue, man." He sits up, suddenly queasy at the thought of getting into it, and turns his attention the mess of cake Carl's still molding with his knife. "What the hell _is_ that, anyway?"

\--- 

It's about an hour after Dwight and Sasha head to bed that the party really starts to wind down, though the music's still playing, if more quietly now, up in the commons. 

Flashing briefly on a memory- of walking to his room while Mom and Gregory were entertaining visitors, having to make himself scarce while the grownups talk business over drinks and Vivaldi- he opens the door to his quarters.

His room's the same as it had been several hours ago, but it seems smaller, now- closed and quiet and claustrophobic- and the scraping noise that comes up from the cargo bay is just loud enough to provide a possible distraction. 

He's not surprised to find Daryl down there, fidgeting with the damaged wall panels from the infirmary. The three of them- him, Daryl and Carl- had been trying to shore up the Cake RV's horizontal stabilizer when Laura and Spencer had joined them at the table. The conversation had turned, inevitably enough, to the fire, and the cleanup, and it hadn't been long after that that Daryl had made his exit. 

"We're supposed to take the night off," Paul says, announcing his presence. "She made it an order, remember?"

Daryl gives a noncommittal grunt, but then he grins, wiping his hands on his coveralls, and picks up the bottle from where it's been camouflaged in the pile of debris on the workbench. "Still following orders. Realized maybe the panels would show something."

"And?"

"Still no fuckin' clue," he admits, defeated. Frowning, he passes him the bottle. The gesture feels like an apology. "Could've been any of this shit that started it."

"Still thinking builder's debris?" 

"Only if whoever left it there got shoved ass-first through the airlock for negligence."

Nodding, Paul crosses the training mat. He's not drunk, but he's warm, and as soon as he talks himself into actually going to bed, he thinks he'll manage sleep just fine. 

He takes a sip from the bottle- just enough to be sociable. The crate he's leaning against shifts, just slightly, when he rolls his shoulders. He's twenty, maybe thirty steps away from where he maybe, might have, _almost_ died, but then Daryl's sitting down next to him, and he can't really see it from here. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 02:12_

Daryl hadn't seemed all that drunk when he'd come down there, but that had been a while ago, and the two of them have put a dent in the bottle that's currently stashed out of easy reach, down by their feet. 

It's late, Paul realizes. The last of the music had cut out a while ago, though there's no need to confirm the hour with a glance over at the control panel's clock. 

"So," he asks. "We gonna get drunk every birthday?"

"Guess that depends on when the next one is."

"Laura's is next month." He scratches his chin. "But we've already got instructions to skip the cake."

Daryl nods, then looks at him. "When's yours?"

"January. You?"

"October." He raises his eyebrows, like the notion of it is strange and new. "Might be on Earth by then."

"They've got whiskey though, right?"

"Shouldn't be hard to come by." Daryl's got his arms stretched out on his knees; he turns his hands over. "Long as we don't put down in the ocean or something." 

"That's just weird."

"What is?"

Paul shifts, his shoulder digging into Daryl's arm, but Daryl doesn't move. "Oceans. _Outside._ The whole concept of it." Right now the idea of any place that isn't _here_ just seems poorly defined, maybe nonexistent. Like Earth isn't real, or the Colony, either. He figures that'll change, once they land.

It's probably a little fucked up that, sitting here in a tin can of a room, nothingness for lightyears on all sides, he thinks that he might get homesick for this non-place.

"S'pose." Daryl shrugs. "You'll get used to it."

"How long did it take you to get used to the Colony?"

"Touché."

"Oh." There's nothing but a long awkward to answer him. "No, I mean- sorry, I guess I shouldn't have assumed."

Daryl blinks at him, then grins, shaking his head. "Shit, nah. I mean..." His gaze slides across the mat to the workbench as he thinks. It takes him a minute, maybe more, before he answers. "When I came up... I mean, took a while to get used to the ship, then the Colony, I dunno. It was better than _that_ , at least. Wasn't like I was waking up expecting wind in my hair and grass under my feet, most of the time. Think I was just relieved to get off the damned ship."

"You think it's gonna be the same this time around?"

Daryl twitches a shrug. "Dunno. I guess not."

Paul nods. "It's home."

Daryl's head sways, and he rocks his left hand back and forth for emphasis. "Kind of, maybe. I mean, I grew up there. Probably counts for something. Still got the same mix of assholes running around that the ship did or the colony does, though. Maybe more so."

"Even here, on the RV? Same mix of assholes?"

Daryl smirks, swivels his hand back and forth at the wrist again.

"Gee, thanks."

"I mean. Yeah, got you, and Sasha and Carl, but Spencer's throwin' the whole thing off on his own."

"He's not _that_ bad."

Daryl goes back to toying with the loose thread on the knee of his coveralls. They're not quite trashed, but he'll probably need to switch to a new set one of these days, coming up here. "Least there'll be grass. Air to breathe that ain't bein' filtered through nothin' first."

"You miss it?"

"It's weird." Another shrug, and another pause. "Like... I ain't had a cigarette in years now, right? At this point, lighting up now, it would probably just make me sick. And they stink, and make your throat raw as hell, and ash gets all over the damned place and you always gotta check eighteen times to make sure you're not gonna burn the house down." For a minute, he just scowls over at the panels leaning against the workbench, before he shakes himself. "You offer me one right now, though, I'd probably take it."

"Once an addict, always an addict?"

"More like... shit was fucked up down there, where I was. Most of it, we brought on ourselves." Daryl shrugs. "But Merle an' his friends, we'd sometimes just sit up drinking and chainsmoking all night. No drama, no dustups, just..." he shrugs, gesturing vaguely at the space around them. "Hanging out, like this."

"But it's the _cigarettes_ you miss? Not your friends?"

"Just, if your smoking, your hands got somethin' to do." He gives a final tug on the thread, as if to illustrate, before looking over at him. "And Merle's friends were all assholes."

"Still," he says, "I'd be curious to meet them." 

\--- 

Daryl knows he's tensed up, and he knows that Rovia's noticed it. 

"Rovia, man, I don't know."

Rovia feigns hurt. "You saying they wouldn't like me?"

"I'm sayin' that even if they're alive, they ain't worth your time. Sure as hell weren't worth mine."

He says it certainly enough that he supposes it's true, though he's never really thought about it. They hadn't even really been worth Merle's time. They'd just always been there.

The first few weeks on the colony, before he'd met the crew he'd fallen into step with, Merle'd been different. Like without them lurking in the wings all day, he'd been able to drop the bullshit. 

All it had taken was a few hundred light years and a brand new planet, and he hadn't had to be anyone in particular. 

Maybe he's just projecting. He doesn't know if it makes any sense, or how much of it needs to.

He's exhausted, and part of it's the late hour, that's easy enough to figure out. The rest of it, though? It's like every other conversation he's had today is just wrong questions. Like shit goin' on months ahead or years ago- and light years away- matters more than the _walls_ catching fire. 

" _Da_ ryl..." 

The thing is, though, compared to actually getting up and turning in- which they both probably should've done a while ago- sitting here against the crates, Rovia's shoulder stabbing into his arm while they talk about shit that doesn't fucking matter... it's a lot like the better nights back on Earth. 

And at least with him, Daryl figures, if he doesn't want to talk about the infirmary- if he wants to listen to Daryl yammering on about all this old done shit instead- he's got good reason. 

" _Ro_ via," he intones, right back at him. It would be more comfortable if he'd just shift closer, like he'd done in the infirmary doorway, but Rovia's okay now. Doesn't need it. 

Neither of them do. 

Rovia snorts, turning his head to glare at him. "Okay, _Dixon_."

"What?"

"Nothing." Looking away, Rovia scratches his jaw. "You know you can call me Paul, right?"

"Oh. Yeah." Shit. Another question, another thing he apparently should've thought about. "Sorry."

"It's cool. Just saying. I've heard you say it, I know you know it."

"Okay." Daryl waits, but whatever Rovia- whatever _Paul's_ original thought had been, he's not getting to it. He's just sitting there, pinching the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It usually ain't uncomfortable sitting here, quiet like this with him, but the silence is drawing out. And Rovia- _Paul_ \- ain't normally the moody sort, drunk or sober. 

"Paul," he says, deliberately enough that he feels like a jackass. "What's up?"

"Huh?"

"Something's been bothering you." It's a stab in the dark, enough of one that he's half-certain that it'll be laughed off in a second, but it's not. And Daryl ain't really sure where to go next. 'Cause if there is something- and it's starting to look like there is- it's probably on him somehow. 

"Think I need to go pass out." Rovia sits up and drags a hand down over his face, eyes wide and blank, and the irritation that's building up abates, a bit, because at least it seems like whatever this problem's brewing up to be, at least there's an easy solution. 

Daryl shifts with him.

It's late enough, apparently, that the alcohol haze is already dissipating. The act of moving gets the blood flowing that by the time they drag themselves up to their feet, he's wide awake. Like his brain is taking in every thing- the debris on the workbench, the hum of the engines, the slightly metallic echo coming off the walls, and the fact that Rovia's looking anywhere but at him. 

"Is it the infirmary thing?"

"What?"

"If it's in your head, still. Makes sense." Behind Rovia and through the cargo bay doorway, he can see the mostly darkened corridor, the steps leading upstairs. The medbay's just out of sight around the corner, but it's been there all night. "Still smells like it down here and everything."

Only Rovia- _Paul_ \- is grinning like he'd rather be frowning as he leads the way towards the exit. "Think I'm just overtired. Brain's gone stupid."

"Know how that goes."

Rovia makes a sound that's equal parts huffed laughter and outright dismissal, but Daryl watches him glance down to his left as he grabs the handrail. He just stands there, for a moment, one foot on the bottom rung, like the infirmary's gravity isn't something he's sure he can escape. 

"C'mon. You lived. Only thing you need to be haunting right now is your own damn bed." He grabs Rovia shoulder, and any plan he might have had to shove or shake is derailed when he feels how quickly he's tensing up. He lets go quickly- there's a part of him that doesn't want to. It takes him a moment to recognize the laughter.

His hand's still hanging there in mid-air. Rovia knocks into it as he turns to look at him, and then reaches up to wrap his fingers around Daryl's shoulder. Tight, like he's making some kind of point. 

\--- 

_Shit_. 

Daryl's focused on him like he doesn't know whether to be amused or worried, but he's not pulling away. He's just standing there, less than a foot away, staring at him. 

It would be so easy... 

"So what, you save my life once and now you tell me what places I can and can't haunt?"

Daryl tries for deadpan but doesn't quite achieve it. "Yep."

And this is where Paul could come clean. That the burnt insulation smell's barely registered at all, once he'd sat down here. That it's more about what Sasha'd told him this morning, and the weird hope that's been on the back burner all afternoon.

It hadn't started simmering until he'd come down here to find him poking and prodding at the mess on the workbench like he hadn't forgotten it owed him an answer, but he'd not expected any from Paul. He'd just let him interrupt, let him be a fuckup for a while, no questions asked. 

Or maybe just no need to ask. 

And now- it's stupid and he knows it- it's all boiling over. Because Daryl's the least tactile person Paul's ever met, and the only move he's made is to plant his feet more firmly. 

"I dunno," Paul manages, all too aware that he hasn't let go yet, and not really sure how to go about it. "The doorway was pretty comfortable."

"It's that door's fuckin' _fault_ ," Daryl extends his arm to flip it off, "and you were barely conscious."

Paul shrugs. "Must've been you, then."

Daryl's eyes twitch down, like he's not really sure where to look. But other than that he's frozen, middle finger in the air, and it's enough that Paul wants to know- wants to ask him- just how much he can get away with, here.

"Just. Glad you were all right, is all," Daryl says, quiet, after a minute. And he brings his hand back down, just enough that the side of it is resting against Paul's arm. 

It's a small thing, just the shift of inches to press his fingers to the back of Daryl's neck. His pulse jumps and stutters; maybe he's just imagining it.  


He's not imagining the way Daryl's eyes dart briefly up to his face.

If this is a window, it's narrowing. Paul tightens his grip, just a little, warning Daryl before he's even really warned himself. 

And he's pulling him in to meet him, and it's _working_ , and he's kissing him.


	25. Chapter 25

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 02:38_

His balance shifts with the pull at the back of his neck, and his hand shifts to grab Rovia's arm reflexively, but the floor's falling out from under him anyway. Because underneath the sensation of his heart choking his lungs out- underneath it _all_ \- Rovia's mouth is crashed up against his, and- 

-he'll meet him halfway, he decides, he just ain't sure where or how-

-he's kissing back. Maybe. His face is tingling and he's not sure he's actually moving his mouth, but he hadn't really rounded up to _thinkin'_ about it, so it's clumsy and too slow, and he's so far off balance that when Rovia pulls away, all he can really do his catch himself from following. 

Which leaves him starin' at Rovia's face as his eyes open, and then _widen_ as his mouth grimaces back into a grin that's more defensive than hopeful.

"Uh. Shit. I wasn't. I didn't-"

"It's okay." Daryl's voice feels like gravel as he interrupts, and he immediately regrets doing so as Rovia puts another few inches between them. With the ladder there, though, he's out of room. 

"Sorry, I didn't really plan on doing that, I just..." 

"It's okay," he repeats, even though God knows he could use a clue right now, but the low-grade panic that's settling in won't let him string new words together. He swallows, fighting the urge to shut down completely. "Just surprised me, is all."

Nodding, Rovia's still looking cornered, at anywhere but him, so he takes a step back.

It's not enough to provide any real relief, even if it is enough to shift them past this nerve-wracking freeze. 

"All right. Um. It's late, and we're both drunk." He squints at him with one eye, like he's expecting a hit; if Daryl imagines that he's just frozen mid-wink, he'd almost look confident. "Should probably turn in. We can talk about it later. We don't _have_ to- just... only if you want."

"Okay," he says, realizing that he thinks he actually _might_ want to, but in the time it takes him to start mustering a real response, Rovia's halfway up the ladder. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 03:13_

It hadn't been a long kiss, or a particularly good one. The angle'd been off, and Daryl very _clearly_ hadn't been expecting it. 

Because Paul hadn't given him any sort of warning, and he definitely hadn't _asked_ , and now that it's been an hour and there hasn't been any pounding on his door courtesy of an irritated Techniki demanding answers, the only thing he's managed to sort out for truth is that he's not sure that being drunk and caught up in the moment is enough of an excuse. 

Daryl's mouth had moved against his. It might've been a kiss. It might've been him just trying to form the words to tell him to back off. 

And when he'd done so- when he'd realized what he'd done and how far he'd pushed- Daryl hadn't said much. He'd just blinked at him inscrutably as he watched him try to explain, try to apologize.

Word by stupid word, none of them right. He's got plenty of them, now, in the safety and silence of his bunk. 

Most of them are questions. 

_Are we good_ and _Are you mad?_

_Can we pretend this never happened_ and _Are you even into guys? 'Cause I know we never talk about it, but sometimes get this impression, and then Sasha-_

No. This isn't on her. This is about his getting his hopes up over nothing, and Paul's mouth has already gotten him in enough trouble for the night.

_Could you at least tell me to fuck off?_

Which is a little sad, given the fact that Paul hasn't given him the chance to. He'd just turned tail and ran like some kind of coward. 

Not that it's doing him any good. He'd moved all of twenty feet, and he'd been bone-crushingly aware of Daryl's footsteps heading into his own quarters not too long afterwards. No pause outside his doorway, no hesitation, just the sounds of someone getting ready for bed. 

Maybe he'd been drunk enough that Paul will be the only one remembering it in the morning. And even if he's not, it's _Daryl_. He doesn't talk when he doesn't want to. 

It's a pretty pathetic consolation, all things considered. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 03:28_

God damn it, Daryl might be bad at this, he's not so stupid that he doesn't know how it could've gone better. 

The kiss had only lasted a second or two. It hadn't been long enough to get the message right then, but those two seconds are stretching out exponentially now. Scruff grinding together. Soft lips barely buffering hard teeth. Fierce for a moment, and then frozen, and then gone. 

He'd leaned into it, at the very least least. Given another few seconds, or a little warning, he thinks he would've done more. Because now that it's over, all he can do is stare at the top bunk trying to will time to go backwards, just long enough that he could do something differently. 

Because for all of his own startled idiot confusion, Rovia'd been the one backing away. Under the thin corridor lights, in that moment, he'd looked more nervous than he'd looked in a room with the air sucked out.

Which is shitty, because for a second there- in the middle of it, when Rovia'd been turning his head for a better angle- Daryl'd finally caught on. He'd known to want it. 

Ain't like it had been a particularly new feeling. Just not one that he'd had any intention on chasing down. 

If he'd known to want it- if he'd known he _could_ , whatever Rovia's reasons- if he'd had any inclination that he'd been on Rovia's radar- then maybe he wouldn't have had to watch his eyes dimming the way they had, after. Wouldn't have had to listen to his boots on the rungs as he'd retreated. 

It's almost four in the morning, and he's still trying to convince himself he would've gone after him, tried to stop him. Sorted this out better, whatever it was. 

He'd just needed a second, is all. And now that he's sober, they're just rolling out unendingly before him, and all he can see is them bleeding out and giving way to morning. Sitting at the commons table with this hanging over his head while everyone grumbles into their coffee. Working on the infirmary, whiling away the time until his bridge shift, guts twisting at the thought that Rovia won't be stopping by.

Shit, maybe if he'd get it through his thick skull that his name's _Paul_ , this shit wouldn't be so fucking weird. 

If he'd just let _Paul_ finish what he'd about to say- if he hadn't interrupted and frozen and made it weird- maybe Paul would've just spit what he'd been thinking instead of shutting down. 

If he'd maybe just let himself _contemplate_ it, instead of taking one look at him and assuming it could never happen.

Ain't like it's a big deal. They're friends, or whatever, and it's dark and cold out here. 

On the trip out to the Colony, he'd seen enough of it. People getting lonely and hooking up all over the damned place. He'd had Merle to contend with, though. 

Merle'd spent his nights in his assigned cell, like all the other Stars not Bars passengers, but he'd had a knack for figuring shit out and fucking it all up just for fun, and Daryl'd spent his whole damn life getting used to the fact, even comfortable with it. The notion of heading down to the commons and picking someone up had had the same amount of appeal that taking his bike out to that gay bar in Warner Robins'd had. 

Wasn't like he's spent his whole life tryin' to be anonymous. It's just, given the choice, he's never liked the hassle. But just 'cause Daryl's not much of one to get dragged into that sort of thing doesn't mean he _can't_ be. 

Or it would, if he'd just given it some goddamned _thought_ at any point before now.

He doesn't need it to be- he doesn't even know if he _wants_ it to be- anything more than a _I'm drunk, you'll do_. Would definitely be easier that way, if he'd just gone with the program, done whatever it was that would've gotten the damned point across. Moved in more, kissed him back more quickly, ridden the wave and just _gone_ with it. If his only concern had been that things might get awkward- and it's lookin' like it's goin' that way anyhow, _shit_ \- he could've let Paul know that if he'd wanted to go slumming, it would've been all right by him. 

But that ain't what happened. Instead, he'd stood there like an idiot while Paul- who he actually gives a shit about, and who's so far out of his league that it's still surprises him whenever he realizes that they've even become friends- kissed him. 

It ain't like he's got a lot of experience, here, but he ain't dumb, and he knows he's probably blown it. 

But that ain't the worst. 

'Cause it's Rovia, it's _Paul_ , and Daryl might not have known him for very long, but he knows what he looks like when he knows the universe is screwing him over. The disappointment, the way he hadn't been able to look at him, the fucking _anxiety_ that had gone along with it? 

That's on him, and Paul deserves better. Someone who can get his name right, at least. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 03:28_

This whole night's got him feeling sick, like his entire spine is just one raw nerve and there's acid in his bones. 

And he needs sleep, because in a few hours, he's going to have to get up, go out there and face the day in all it's gray-tinged artificial glory. The fact that he knows he's going to spend the whole day hungover, trying to dredge up the courage to talk to Daryl, just makes even contemplating it exhausting. 

He'd have gotten up to get some water a while ago, though he's still not certain that he'd be able to keep it down, but going to the kitchen means going within range of the bridge. It's just Mitch up there tonight, but right now, broadcasting his existence is something he wants to avoid. 

He rolls over onto his back, stretching out his arms and legs to the extent that he can manage it in the close confines of his bunk, and tries to think about nothing. 

Instead, he just rehearses the things he's going to say for the hundredth time in an hour.

He'll tell Daryl that he's sorry for freaking him out. And that he'll back off and that they're still friends, if Daryl wants to be. 

He'll explain why he did it, at least part ways. That outside the medbay, when Daryl'd asked him about nearly dying there, he'd taken that glimmer of giving a shit and twisted it into something that it hadn't meant to be, noting more. _Mistakes were made, let's blame it on the trauma and move on._

Daryl probably won't push, if he even wants to talk to him in the first place. There's no need to let him know about the low-banked crush he's been harboring for weeks, or how fucking twisted up he is over the likelihood that he's just pushed their friendship- the first one that's felt this real in a long time- far enough to break. And there's absolutely _no_ reason he needs to let on about how fucking _sure_ and _happy_ he'd been, in that instant before he'd realized how _wrong_ he's been.

He can save that much face, at least, and spare him thinking about the rest of it. It's not as if Paul's not inexperienced at wanting things he can't have. His drunken neediness isn't Daryl's problem. 

And Paul should get a handle on it anyway. They both know what they're supposed to be doing here. The crew's already down one, they're flying into a war, and there are 1300 people on the Colony depending on them to not fuck this up. 

He'll tell Daryl this, if he asks. Though he probably won't. 

It's not everything he wants, but it'll be enough. 

His back and shoulders are no longer trying to fracture themselves, or else he's just too exhausted and wrung out to care any longer. 

Dragging the blanket back over him, he settles back and closes his eyes. He stretches his toes so far that he feels like they're just about to cramp, but when he relaxes his entire body feels heavy, like it's sinking through a mattress more comfortable than this. 

Which is why it's with no minor misery that he snaps back to alertness at the sound of a door opening in the corridor; the footsteps heading away towards the cargo bay are unmistakably Daryl's.

One breath, and a decision. 

It's better to get it over with. Better still to have it out down there, alone, before everyone else is awake. 

And right now, honestly, if it'll just allow him to get some fucking _sleep_ , he'll do anything. 

Turning on the light, he shoves his feet back into his boots, tucking the laces inside without tying them, and gives himself a minute to steel himself. The sense memory of waiting outside Council Chambers, preparing to present the annual report for the first time slams into him; he steers the thought into less stressful waters, stepping out from his engineering dissertation and feeling all the tension leaving his body at once. 

Now that he's up, there's no good reason to drag this out. He'll go down there, say his piece, and let the chips fall as awkwardly as they will. And whatever mortification's to come can damn well wait until morning. 

_Later_ this morning. He's been zoning out for five minutes, he realizes, glancing at the clock. He could've been done by now. 

Bolstered as much as his foggy brain will allow, he opens his door. 

He's not, as it turns out, ready for Daryl's fist in his face.


	26. Chapter 26

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 04:02_

"Daryl?" 

He blinks, and the hand withdraws. And it's just Daryl, there, glancing over his shoulder like he's worried Paul's woken up the rest of the crew. Or maybe he's just avoiding looking at him. 

Either way, it's no good, doing this in the hallway, him in his thermals and unlaced boots, Daryl in his coveralls and bare feet. At least _he'd_ planned on following him down to the cargo bay to corner him _there_. But he'd also planned on another ten or fifteen seconds to figure out how he was going to say. 

He'd had it, just a little while ago, but it's escaping him now. 

"What's up?" He's careful to whisper; even so, Daryl looks startled. 

"Couldn't sleep. Figured we should talk."

Taking a deep breath that he hopes Daryl can't hear, Paul opens the door wider and backs into the room. 

Sitting on the bed, with the sheets kicked around as they are, feels too deliberate, like he's sitting down and getting comfortable for a long conversation that neither of them really want. Sitting on the chair would leave the bed open, and it's not likely Daryl's not already completely aware of how presumptuous Paul's capable of being. So he leans against the cabinets and crosses his arm, aiming for casual. It's artificial, but at least Daryl can see that his hands are out of play. And eventually, after a moment, it becomes glaringly clear that when Daryl said _we_ should talk, he'd meant _him_. 

"So. About earlier. I wasn't planning on that happening."

"Which part?"

"Kissing you. Running off like that. Take your pick."

"Okay."

 _Of course._ Why he'd thought Daryl would actually start talking _now_ is anybody's guess, but he'd come over here, presumably, to talk, and it would be a little bit helpful if he _would_.

Paul sighs. "Look, I'm trying here. I just don't want it to be weird."

"Bit late for that," Daryl smirks, like he's really trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and something about his tone feels like a punch to the chest. 

"Guess I deserved that."

Daryl takes a breath, sighs it out, and shakes his head as he settles into place against the cabinet next to him, mirroring his pose. "No, you don't." His eyes drop, and when he brings his hand up to his face Paul swears he's going to start chewing on that hangnail again, but instead it just hovers there. "Guess... I mean. Why'd you do it?"

"The kissing or the running?"

"Both, I guess."

 _Both_. Like it's so damned simple. 

Fuck it, maybe it is. 

"I kissed you because I like you. Ran 'cause I didn't think you wanted me to." 

This is where it'll happen. The _thanks, but no thanks_. It would be nice if he'd just get on with it. 

After a minute, he risks a glance up; Daryl's staring blankly at the desk, because of _course_ he wouldn't be the one giving anything away, here. It's not until he's looking at the floor again that Daryl speaks. Like he'd been waiting for it. 

"Wasn't that. Just. Surprised, is all. Wasn't expecting it." When he glances briefly up at Paul, his mouth twitches into a grin. There and gone again. "Would've done it back, otherwise."

He can't be hearing this right. 

All the shit he's been agonizing over, it hadn't really occurred to him to even think that maybe...

"So," he tries, "If I'm hearing you right..."

Daryl nods, but he's frowning. "I mean, if it's just a drunk thing, I get it."

_It's not._

Just fucking _say_ it.

"Not a drunk thing. More like a courage thing." It's an oversimplification, but he's starting to realize that Daryl's way of saying only the bare minimum makes it easier to say anything at all. Daryl doesn't respond, so he has to ask. "What about you?"

"I'm sober now."

\--- 

There's no real warning for either of them. Just a slow creeping awareness that's capped off by Paul's laughter. And suddenly, for as weird as the last hour or two has been, it's easier than Daryl'd thought it would be to smile back at him. Easier to telegraph his moves the way Rovia's doing: a roll at the shoulder, a slight turn inward, rolling against the cabinet doors. 

Then they're looking right at each other and it's complicated all over again. 

Paul's better at this than he is, of that he's sure, but he's being careful. So Daryl is too, but it's a different kind of wariness. Paul's hands are still clamped under his elbows, so Daryl reaches for him first. Slow, so he can see it coming as it comes to rest on his shoulder. 

Paul leans into the touch, swaying forward just a bit. 

This time, Daryl kisses him first, but Paul's already there, meeting him halfway, and the second one is easier, 'cause Paul's sliding his arms around his side and pulling him in and there's hair in his mouth that might be his and might not be, and he doesn't much care, because when he eases back to check- to make sure this is actually _all right_ , Paul's smiling at him, eyes at half mast.

"I was just about to go tracking you down," he's whispering; the words don't have far to go. "You know, before you came in here. Finally talked myself into letting you let me down easy. Had every eggshell I was going to be walking on all planned out."

Daryl can feel his face going red, though he supposes it's probably too late for that. It's not like he could hide, and it's not like he particularly wants to. Paul's got his hand caught up in his coveralls and his hair's a mess and it's got him feelin' brave. 

"That plan sucks," he says, like his own hadn't amounted to pretty much the same thing. "Glad it didn't work out."

Paul's mouth is already mostly back up against his, and he hums his reply straight into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one! Didn't want to leave anyone hanging on another evil cliffie.


	27. Chapter 27

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 13:21_

Merle'd had this theory about hangovers, that they were called that because they just floated two feet above you when you slept, waiting to take over your system until you did something stupid, like sitting up. 

"Daryl. Get your ass down here."

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know that the chime is waking him up far too damned early, so he keeps them closed. Even so, his head swims when he sits up. 

" _Daryl_ , I repeat, get your ass-"

He smacks his head against the comms control on the wall, then turns on the lights, not that it does much good. It's afternoon, technically, but there's no sun pouring through the windows, and as painful as he vaguely remembers it could be, he kind of resents it. "We venting atmo?"

"No but-"

"Gimme a minute." 

The thought slides in sideways, in between lacing up his left boot and putting on the right. Kissing Paul, and a conversation that had seemed almost easy before the cold light of day had figuratively crept in. 

A short million miles later, and the light's no different, and he kind of feels like it should be. 

\--- 

For the past hour and a half, Paul's had all this to himself. Sharing bleary nods with the rest of the hungover crew, watching out of the corner of his eye in case any of them look at him funny. Drinking lukewarm coffee and doing a barely convincing imitation of someone who's got an interest in databurst prep. Riding the line of content anxiety, and pretending that he's not watching the clock, wondering when Daryl was going to emerge from his quarters. Wondering whether he should make himself scarce, let the guy get some coffee and breakfast before getting within line of sight. 

Dragging it out doesn't really seem to be the way to go, though. And he doesn't want to give the impression that he's avoiding him. 

He'll just have to play it cool, a little bit, and hope that they're on the same page. 

So it's a little irritating that Dwight's ducking his head into the commons on his way down from the bridge, and asking him if he's got a minute. 

"What's going on?"

"Was just talking to Mitch," he nods back up the steps. "Long range sensors are picking up some weird shit near the relay- probably debris- so we're slowing down again. Capacitors are already running high, though. Don't want to overload them."

"And we don't want to switch to the approach engines too early," Paul finishes for him. "'Want me to start in on the numbers?"

"You mind? Mitch wants me and Daryl to look at the system, make sure we're not running the risk of overloading anything ."

"No problem. I'll ping you as soon as I've got something."

\--- 

The infirmary's the mess he'd been expecting to deal with this afternoon, so it takes Daryl a few minutes to switch gears and actually start thinking about power issues. 

Their main engine is built to run at full speed, 150 times the speed of light. Dialing it back to 140 has already added a week to their trip. Anything more and they're looking at adding weeks, if not months, to their journey, and running down their supplies enough that a return trip would not be possible without a resupply that is so far anything but guaranteed. 

Downshifting any further than they've done, they run the risk of an overload- which would leave them effectively stranded, crawling towards Earth on the approach engines, and they don't have the supplies on hand for the luxury of dying of old age.

Most likely, they're going to have to run the drive converter below capacity and bleed out the excess, so to speak, in order to keep the drive functioning, and going easy on the acceleration once they're past the relay.

It's not, Daryl realizes, the sort of thing best handled on too little sleep after too much alcohol, even if all he's supposed to be doing is confirming whether or not they have enough replacement parts to even risk the modifications in the first place. 

"How's it look?" 

"They ain't primed, but we've got two backups. 45 and a 65." Daryl slides the lid back, wary of the warning labels telling him that nobody in their right mind should be touching this. "Any idea how long that'll take?"

Dwight brings up the specs. "We're running on the original 45 now... The 65, it's cruiser class. Takes a month, and that's with primaries routed through it, not accounting for life support or sensors or anything else. We get the 45 rigged in now, though..." It takes him a minute to work out the calculations, but he looks optimistic when he glances up. "Maybe a week, week and a half. We can take advantage of the downshift bleedout. Just better be sure we're nowhere near a gravity well when we bring it online, or we'll spike the charge."

"According to the nav system, we're looking at a few coming up." Rovia's stepping into the room with a carafe of coffee in his hand; he pulls out three cups from the bag he's got over his shoulder, which at least explains how he'd gotten it all down the steps, if not exactly why. "Should be within range of the first by tonight; Mitch just entered it into the flight plan."

Daryl nods, throat suddenly dry as he watches Rovia- Paul, no, _Rovia_ , now- hand Dwight one of the cups and the carafe. 

He wonders what it means when Rovia pours a cup for him, their knuckles knocking together as he passes it over. Probably nothing. But Rovia's not quick to back away, and despite the bags under his eyes that aren't entirely from the overhead lights- or maybe because of them, and everything that had happened to put them there, Daryl's frozen to the spot. 

At least Dwight's back is turned. 

The coffee smells amazing, and will go a long way, he thinks, in pushing back at the hammering in his brain. But then Rovia smirks at him, quick and quiet, behind his own mug, and Daryl's more likely to choke on the coffee than get it down easy, so he just stands there like an idiot. 

He doesn't realize he's grinning until Dwight turns around and frowns at him in confusion, then turns his attention to Rovia instead.

"When's the second?"

"Day after tomorrow," he says, and then the two of them are off, talking numbers and deceleration rates and turning, eventually, to the reasoning that had gone into moving a cruiser-class drive capacitor onto an RV.

When Daryl finally risks taking a sip, and makes the mistake of noticing Paul looking at him instead of the tablet Dwight's showing him, he has to cough just to swallow it down.

\--- 

_Sunday, 08/01/2194, 23:21_

"Thought Laura was supposed to be on backup." 

He sounds like an asshole, sayin' it like that before Paul's all the way up the ladder, and he knows it. It ain't that he's all _that_ surprised, him coming up here, but he's talked himself in and out of expecting half a dozen times since he'd started his shift. 

Paul passes him one of the cups of coffee he'd brought up, but he's definitely noticed the one Daryl'd brought up on his own, sitting in the cupholder. And yeah, Daryl might've just been planning for Laura taking up the other seat for a good portion of the night, but he hadn't meant it as anything more than that, regardless of what Paul may or may not be thinking. 

"Between the party and dinner, something wasn't agreeing with her." He rubs a hand over his face; he's a little slow to sit down. Just as Daryl becomes aware that he should probably say something to put him at ease, Paul lets out a quiet laugh. "Plus, you know..." his eyes dart down to the coffee. "Didn't want you to think I was avoiding you, so-"

"Didn't think you were," he replies, probably too quickly, and not sure whether he's lying or not. They'd both been busy with shit all day, and there hadn't been much room for conversation over dinner with everyone talking about power distribution plans and some glitch in the databanks. Daryl'd been thankful for that, at the time- nobody'd been lookin' for him to chime in- but now he's had a few hours to sit up here and think in circles, and he hasn't gotten anywhere. 

Paul doesn't look like he's done much better in that regard, and _yeah_ , Daryl thinks. He _gets_ it. 

"Busy day." He looks over and smirks at him, sipping the very definitely reheated coffee, making every effort to look like he's got any idea how to handle this. "You figure out that thing with the databanks yet?

Paul rolls his eyes and settles back into the chair, wincing dramatically. "Yeah. Pretty sure it was my fault. Looks like I shut off the automatic updates when we sent the databurst at relay one, and that _included_ the flight recorder. So _that_ was stupid. Thought I was going to have to go through and move everything over manually, but I restarted the program and everything ported over just fine."

Daryl glances down at the controls, and decides against asking for further details. The gravity well, helpfully labeled as _2147GW27_ and described as _Snyder's Ass_ in the nav system, is starting to bleed onto the far edge of the short-range screen. 

Paul's brought his own display up online, and he's seeing it too, but it's not close enough that there's anything to do about it yet. "How's the salvage operation going?" 

"Slow. Stasis is down for good, surgery too unless Mitch and Sasha finally sign off on stripping down one of the external grab arms for parts."

"Haven't looked in on it in the past ten minutes..." Paul switches to the job queue, somewhat irritably, and finds the update, then starts scanning through the comments. It's only a moment before he's overwhelmed and backing out of it. "Yeah, _that'll_ stay pending in the queue for a while yet. Our fearless leaders are still bickering. What's your take on it?"

"Ain't like we're out here gathering rock samples, but if the upcoming relays need any repairs, it's the most secure way of latching on. Might want to get someone trained up on stitches and shit, though." 

Hopefully they won't need it. He ain't one to knock on wood, but he _definitely_ ain't stupid enough to say that shit out loud. And he's not surprised that Paul's nodding, like he's already thought of it.

"At the current rate, we won't get to it until after the relay." He sighs, closing out the queue and switching back over to nav. "Better than nothing, though, I guess. Fucking _fire_."

The gravity well's small- probably belonging to something the size of an asteroid, and not a black hole- but it's bled into the top right quarter of the screen now; Daryl runs the thrust projector and comes up with an additional 6.3 percent to starboard, which he bounces over to Paul's screen for verification. He finalizes Daryl's adjustment. 

There's nothing outside the windshield that indicates anything is happening at all. He's not sure why he always thinks there should be.

"You know," Daryl says, aware that he's feeling the movement of the shift only because he's looking for it, "if we keep going in slow for the next two relays, we'd have enough time to plan our approaches. Wouldn't need the other arm."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see him shaking his head, but when he looks over, he's got his eyes closed and he's grinning. 

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just. All this back and forth, for _days_ , and you just come in like-" he waves a hand in the air, some indication of _abracadabra, you solved it_ , then switches back to the job queue to make another note. 

"Yeah, well. Can't all be Techniki."

"I'm gonna tell Sasha you said that. Like, I actually think she deserves to hear it."

"Go ahead, I'll find a camera."

"Whatever, I don't care. _You_ didn't have their system updates pinging you all day." Paul stretches his arms over his head as he sits back, narrowly missing hitting his coffee cup on the overhead control panel and dumping the whole thing on his head. "I could kiss you right now."

"Go ahead," he says, thinking that he's managing to keep it cool, that Paul doesn't know that his palms are fucking _sweating_ like the idiot he is.

Only Paul's smirking at him like he's got his number, and then he's bracing himself over the arm of his chair, eyes just catching the edges of the stars passing by.

It's awkward. They're too far and at the wrong angle to do more, and Paul needs to shave or something, because it's a little hard trying to find his actual _mouth_. There's a hand carding through his hair; it stops the moment he becomes aware of it, like Paul's thinking better of it, but then it's back.

He thinks he'll try the same thing, sometime soon. Paul's hair at least looks like it's been washed in the past three days. 

It'd probably be nice.


	28. Chapter 28

_Tuesday, 08/03/2194, 19:15_

Mitch and Dwight have barely said two words to each other for two days now, and Laura's been ignoring Spencer for at least half of that. So he's not entirely surprised to overhear Sasha and Daryl butting heads as well, just before dinner. 

He raises his eyebrows at Mitch, when he comes to relieve him, but Mitch just rolls his eyes. "Sasha wants to wait until we've already stopped to get to work on the grab arm. Daryl doesn't want to wait. Don't ask."

So Paul doesn't; he doesn't really need to. It's the approaching relay, really, that's stressing everyone out. 

Relay two might be their halfway point, but it doesn't mean that that they'll be able to get word back home or to Earth; there's too much riding on someone looking for their signal, on it even being in one piece in the first place. It doesn't mean they're not preparing their files for the databurst, or worrying, quietly, about what they're supposed to say if the opportunity arises. 

After reporting that his bridge shift had been uneventful, he sits down to eat, and tries to think of some way to break the ice, get people talking, but when Sasha tries, trying to get Spencer talking about the garden, or Dwight talking about how they'll try to make up the time from the slowdown, he can't be bothered to pay attention, much less join in. 

It's another five minutes before Spencer breaks the quiet. 

"We should start up book club again," he smirks, rolling his eyes as he looks around the table. Otherwise we're all going to start shoving ourselves out the airlock just for a change of scenery." 

Sasha's shoveling some rehydrated spinach and rice into her mouth, but she nods appreciatively, as if it's the best idea she's ever heard. Laura and Carl are quick to follow suit- Daryl doesn't look like he's heard at all- so Paul agrees as well.

"Good idea," he says. "Just not the Mars one, maybe."

\--- 

The book, _Hard Eyes and Shadows_ , is a newer one. All he's really noticed about it before is the sticker on the front announcing it's printed on 100% recycled materials. As such, the pages are nearly transparent, more plastic than paper. 

He's trying to pay attention, he really is. It's set on Earth, and he doesn't know as much about it as he should. His brain keeps wandering, though, down to the cargo bay, where the occasional clank of tools and crates being shifted around keeps punctuating the story. When Laura gets to the end of the first chapter and passes it to him, though, everything she's read to them, he's already forgotten.

As he reads, he figures out that the main character's first name is Jada, and that she's annoyed with her landlord and worried about her sister, and that the news is filled with concerns regarding the activities of the emerging Strategic Alliance. 

When Carl takes over to read, it's like jumping into another story midstream. Different characters, different setting, and he doesn't have the context for any of it. Sasha, Dwight, Spencer and Laura seem riveted though. Or maybe it's _Sasha and Dwight_ , and _Spencer and Laura_ , since apparently all anyone needed to be cuddled up and cozy was a little bit of distraction, at least for the time being. 

He doesn't begrudge them that, but he doesn't really want to be in the room with it, either. Paul he tries not to interrupt as he gets up to leave. 

The cargo bay lights are off, and it's disappointingly cavernous and empty when he turns them on, and for a moment, he just stands there, staring at the hydroponics and not-quite thinking about what he's supposed to do with himself, now. 

He could go upstairs, stare at his tablet and try again to convince himself that putting together a message for the databurst is worth the effort. That someone'd want to hear it enough to open the file in the first place, or that he has anything at all worth saying. 

He's not sure he's got either of those things. Anything anyone needs to know will be put in the inventory and system updates, which he's mostly got completed anyway. 

Maybe that's close enough. 

Mostly, what he wants is to zone out for a while. For time to pass without him _in_ it. 

Sleep, then, would be the wisest choice. Maybe when he wakes up, everything won't be so goddamn distant and depressing. 

He's on his way back to the ladder when he notices the vid player sitting next to a haphazardly folded blanket on top of one of the crates; Carl had probably left it there. 

Paul picks it up before the idea to do so even really forms, and heads back upstairs. 

A moment later, he's standing with it in the corridor, staring at Daryl's door, whatever idea he'd started to have long gone, now.

He feels too damn conspicuous, loitering out here like this. Everyone in the commons going to hear him knocking on Daryl's door in a moment, and they'll hear whatever comes after that. 

Daryl's fine. Clearly, he hadn't wanted company, or he would've stuck around for book club, or given him some kind of indication that Paul's presence would be welcome.

He should probably just leave him be. Wait until they've sorted out what their boundaries are before dropping in on him like this. Kissing him in the middle of the night, when the ship's asleep is one thing; this just feels forced, pushy. Like suddenly he's decided that Daryl's got to drop whatever it is in favor of just watching a movie that Paul can't be bothered to care about. 

Daryl's not really one to sit around watching vids at all, really.

...And Paul's _still_ just standing here. 

If he goes to his quarters, he'll just be stewing about it all night; and he's just too tired to think. If he goes back to the commons, someone might ask him questions he's got no way of answering. 

And he does, actually, want to see Daryl, too, when it comes right down to it. So he knocks. Plans out the tone he's going to use. Tries not to think about how fucking pathetic he's going to look when Daryl opens the door. 

Which is probably why Daryl's response, upon seeing him, is to straighten up, visibly concerned, and ask, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Paul shakes himself, then remembers the vid player, and plasters a grin on his face. "Didn't feel like doing book club. Figured I'd stare at a movie or something for a while. You interested?"

The shrug he gets in response punches a little hard, but then Daryl's stepping back, holding the door open for him. He looks tired, though, and a little like he's trying to switch gears from being irritated and getting stuck on nervous. That makes two of them, Paul supposes. 

There's not much room to maneuver in here, so Daryl has to edge around him once the door's closed, ending up wedged against the table where he's got what looks to be scanner parts scattered everywhere. "So. Hey, what's up?"

Paul shrugs, still trying for an easiness he doesn't really feel, and manages not to step on his feet. "Just trying to figure out if it would piss you off if I kissed you hello."

Daryl blinks, confused, but his shoulders uncoil slightly, even as his face goes red. "Uh, no."

There's no taste of whiskey, and Paul's not really sure why he'd been expecting it. It's barely more than a brush of lips, but Daryl's not pulling back any further than it takes to fix him with an assessing look. Whatever he's clearly about to ask, though, gets pushed aside. 

As usual, the problem that Paul hadn't thought about until it's too late, Daryl's already trying to solve. "Ain't really got nowhere good to sit if we're gonna watch anything. Bed's all right?"

 _Yes_ is probably coming on too strong. "Sure." 

Daryl turns, leaning down to drag the covers up. "So's you know," he says, back still turned, "y'ain't gonna piss me off. Least not like that." 

"Cool, just figured I should check," he says lightly, because yes, obviously, they need to talk this out. He'd just figured it wouldn't happen until both of them were drunk, or at least tired enough to trick themselves into _thinking_ that they were. "I just wasn't sure, like..." _if you're out_. "If it was too early... like, with everyone else still being up."

Bed made, Daryl sits down; he kind of has to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the top bunk. Nodding to the space next to him, he shrugs, and Paul joins him.

"They'll figure it out at some point." He pauses, comes pretty close to actually turning to look at him. "But it ain't a problem if they do. I mean, least for me."

Paul's gotten used to the way Daryl talks, and the way he doesn't. The pause has the same weight that his words do, even it leaves Paul unsure what it means or how to ask. "Me too, for the record," he replies.

Daryl lets out a quiet laugh. "Sorry," he says, letting out a quiet laugh once a moment's gone by. "Probably should've said that already."

"Kind of hard to work into conversation." 

"'Specially when you suck at this kind of thing as much as I do."

He doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that, other than _me, too_ , which he thinks Daryl already gets, so he just leans into him, knocking their shoulders together. 

After a few minutes thinking, the best he can come up with- knowing full well that he's avoiding the topic, but getting the sense that Daryl will let him- is, "So. What do you feel like watching?"

\--- 

This is fucking ridiculous. 

It takes ten minutes just to find something that doesn't look terrible. Twenty minutes into it, they have to put it on pause because hunching under the low clearance is irritating. Shifting around, pulling their boots off, they eventually slouch, shoulder to shoulder, against the crossbar that serves as a headboard. It's only slightly more comfortable, even with the extra pillow he'd dragged down off the top bunk. 

Daryl's crammed about as far as he can be against the wall, and he's got to be careful with his left leg to make sure he doesn't send Paul, or the vid player he's got propped up on his knees, toppling to the floor. Close to the edge as he is, it's probably inevitable. 

If they were on a couch, he could try pulling that dumb arm-over-the-shoulder move, or something. Paul would let him get away with it. Might even _like_ it. But there's no room to do it without being obvious, and... 

...Daryl's not used to wanting things like this, and he's definitely not used to _getting_ things like this. Pushing for more just feels like taking liberties. 

So he half-sits, half-sprawls against the wall, stares at the screen, and does his best to ignore him completely. 

And _that_ probably ain't what he'd come over here for, either.

He ain't stupid, after all. 

He'd gone home with this girl, once. Partially to have an excuse to bail on Merle and his idiots, partially just to see if he _could_. And it hadn't been bad- she'd been nice enough. Drunk, too. She'd passed next to him on the couch before anything really could've gotten started. 

He'd been relieved, and a little annoyed; there hadn't been an obvious way to extricate himself without waking her. He'd gotten so worried about that eventuality that he'd sat there, frozen, staring at bad late-night TV for a few hours, and just _not moving_

It hadn't been for another few months that he'd tried anything like that again, but by that point, Merle'd been back in jail again. So he'd gotten on his bike, driven up to a bar in Warner Robins, and let some older guy blow him in the bathroom. 

It had been fine. The fifty bucks the guy'd shoved into his hands before disappearing back out into the bar had been unexpected, though. Kind of a nice surprise, at first, until he caught sight of himself in the scratched up mirror as he washed his hands, and the meaning of it had actually sunk in.

There'd been a part of him that had genuinely wanted to follow him out there and beat the shit out of him, but there'd been a bigger part of him that had been too much a coward to even try it. He'd spent ten minutes staring at the graffiti and drying his hands before getting the balls up to stalk out of the bathroom, through the bar, and out the front door. He hadn't looked up at anyone's faces as he'd done so, sure that if it happened, that all they'd see was used shit, when he hadn't even figured out who'd used who. 

He'd driven back home that night, making it as far as the parking lot outside the liquor store, where he'd smoked most of a pack of cigarettes waiting for it to open. Ten minutes after the place had opened, he'd spent the whole fifty. 

He'd been convinced that Merle could see the signs of it, even months later, when he got out of jail and they were seeing each other for the first time. But he hadn't, and it had been a relief, mostly, to fall into the old habits, to keep that shit on lockdown and not give a fuck any more. To run the "don't want no bike skank" and "someone's gotta get your drunk ass home" game, to just go back to _normal_. 

Maybe he'd been too insistent, though, the third or fourth time Merle wanted to ride up to Warner Robins for the weekend. Maybe Merle just knew him better than Daryl thought. Either way, he'd figured it out. 

Nothing special about that evening. They'd just been comin' home from the bar and Merle, having an epiphany mid-way through some story about a mad dog and a deputy, had thrown his keys onto the counter and stopped short. 

"You's gay, ain't you."

For a second, it had been fine. Just Merle sayin' shit the way he did. Trouble was, he'd spent too much time tryin' to figure out where it was coming from that he hadn't been quick enough to deny it. 

"Uh. The fuck?"

Merle'd stared at him for a long moment; at the time, it had seemed like the drunken stupor he'd spent all night earning was just suddenly clearing from his eyes. 

"Nah. It's all right, like hell. Back in Dooly. Saw plenty of it. Dudes you wouldn't think, otherwise, outside of lockup. Thing is, though, I mean, you don't have to be if you don't wanna be."

He'd still been drunk, then. All Daryl really remembers is latching onto that thought like it was some kind of lifeline. Because maybe he'd forget that this conversation ever took place, or maybe- _maybe_ \- he'd forget his lines. Forget to be _Merle_ about the whole goddamned thing.

Maybe for a second, Daryl could just be fucking _honest_ , for once. 

"Not sure it works like that," he'd said, carefully, after a minute, holding Merle's eyes so he wouldn't notice the shift in his stance, preparing, if needed, to fight. 

_Fuck you anyway, I ain't,_ was all he'd needed to say, right then, and that would've been the end of it. 

But Merle'd been staring at him, smirking drunkenly, and the expected attack never came. 

"S'pose not. But fuck if things don't make a hell of a lot more sense." Merle'd laughed, once through his nose, and then he'd gone quiet. 

Daryl remembers holding his breath, and the way Merle's gaze had dropped down, clocking his balled fists with the twitch of an eyebrow.

"Jus' don't go spoutin' that shit in front of the crew, yeah?" He'd turned, then, stretching as he made his way towards the living room where he usually slept. "Those fuckin' idiots ain't got nothin' better to do and I don't want to be hearing about it every five minutes for the rest of my life."

"Sure thing." Daryl'd said it like he'd been humoring in- just in case- but he'd meant it. 

And so had Merle. It had never come up again. 

\--- 

He's thinking, hazily, that he should probably tell Paul all of this, and that it's going to be some kind of clusterfuck, when Paul twitches violently, the vid player sliding off of his knees and into his lap, the screen snapping shut over the main menu. 

"Sorry. Dozing off."

Daryl shrugs; when his arm moves, there's more friction there than he's expecting. Sometime in the last little while, Paul's shifted closer. Maybe they both have. It doesn't seem to matter as much as it had a while ago. 

"S'alright, think I might've too." The words are mostly overtaken by a yawn; what wakes him up more is the sudden line of cold against his side as Paul shifts away. He's just rolling over, though, propping himself up on one arm, and fixing him with a bleary grin.

"It's late. Should probably go back and head to bed."

"Don't have to." 

He's a little surprised it comes out so easy. Thinks, maybe, that he should put a qualifier on it. But Paul's already looking at him like he's surprised, and that he's thinking about it, and maybe Daryl can just leave that shit all up to him. 

"Yeah?"

This is going to be a logistical mess, if he does. There's clothes and blankets to sort out, and no room to speak of, and Paul's eyes flitting to the window behind him like somehow that's on the list as well.

"If you want." He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like some sort of idiot. Taking advantage of the small amount of space he's got, he shifts down until his feet hit the far end of the frame. 

Paul's leaning over him now, deliberately so, so Daryl fights inertia to lift his head kiss him. Keeps it light, figures he can read it like a kiss goodnight or goodbye for now, if that's what he's wanting. 

When Paul deepens the kiss, his hair falling over Daryl's face gives him the excuse to run his hands through it, get it out of the way. It feels as good as he'd thought it would, so he does it again. He's not ramping up to anything in particular- tired as he is, that's even more hassle, for a _lot_ of reasons- but he could be convinced. 

"Fair warning," Paul mumbles, forehead bumping into his as he shifts. "I'm probably going to be passing out in like five minutes."

"Cool," he says, as if this is something that happens every day. "You wanna hit the light first?"

"Ugh. Yeah."

Paul stretches out to reach it- Daryl's sure he's going to overextend and fall off the bed, grabbing his hip to steady him- but then the room's dark, and when he settles down to sprawl against his side, the warm weight of him pushes Daryl down through the mattress, straight into sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (just a little quick update for tonight, I'm hoping to have the rest up Monday).

_Wednesday, 08/04/2194, 05:57_

Paul wakes up to near total darkness and a quiet ship, which isn't unusual, but the _warmth_ is another story altogether. 

By the scant traces of light from the control panel, he can see the silhouette of Daryl's profile silhouetted against their reflection in the window. Beyond that, on the other side of the glass, is the same nothing that has him covering his own windows with a blanket just to hold it at bay.

He doesn't mind the sight of it right now. There's no vertigo, no creeping _aloneness_ staring back at him. Instead it's just calm, peaceful. He thinks he could doze off again, easily, if not for the awareness that soon, the rest of the ship will wake up. 

If he leaves now, he can clear out of here before anyone else is in the hallway to see. Daryl'd seemed alright about everyone finding out about the two of them, but Paul doesn't know how far he wants to push it, and it's not just because of Daryl. The odds are good his overnight location's already been noticed, and Paul doesn't know what to do with that. 

Back home, there wouldn't have been anyone to give a damn in the first place, one way or the other. 

And there's the mechanics of it, too. He's wedged against Daryl's shoulder; any movement will probably wake him. It's better than just disappearing on him, but it still seems rude. 

Thankfully, after a few minutes, he can feel the change in Daryl's breathing; he's half expecting him to wake up with a start- an explosion of sudden, awkward movement- but it's slower than that. It registers first with Daryl's arm tightening against his back. 

So Paul just stares out the window for another minute, and lets himself enjoy this. Settles back against him because he can, and lets himself just _be_.

\--- 

It's early, yet, and there's a part of Daryl that just wants to doze until his alarm goes off in forty minutes. Instead, he shakes the pins and needles out of his left arm and pushes himself up. The sheets are rucked up and warm where Paul'd been lying. It's nice. But there's work to be done, and now that he's up he might as well get his workout out of the way, and nothing he can do now is going to be any better than the lie-in he's already had.

\--- 

"Morning," Paul'd whispered against his neck, nuzzling closer. "I should probably get going, see if I can't grab the first shower." 

For a while, they'd just laid there, until eventually Paul had woken up enough to prop himself up on his elbow and lean in for a quick closed-mouth kiss. 

"You sleep all right?" he'd asked, one hand on Paul's neck, not even thinking about how easy it was. 

"Yeah," Paul replied, which could've been a lie, but he'd rolled his shoulders in a stretching shrug, and his expression had cleared. He'd smiled, raising his eyebrows in a question. "Couldn't hurt to get more practice in, I'm thinking." 

"Think we're both off again Friday night," he'd replied, wincing at the elbow stabbing him between his ribs as Paul tried to extricate himself. "Could try to finish the movie. Or something."

Faltering in his attempt to rise, he'd fallen back against him, and it had been so damn easy to kiss him, to deepen it into something low-banked but intentional, that Daryl hadn't realized he'd done it until they'd had to separate just to breathe. Foreheads pressed together, the air had been humid and close and Paul's eyes had been wide and blown out. 

"I'll check the schedule," he'd laughed, leaning in again. "But yeah. It's a date."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 08/04/2194, 07:27_

"You want to pass me one of those cups?" Sasha's asking, on the other side of the bathroom door, as Daryl's shower cuts out. "Thanks."

"Sure thing," he hears Paul, and for the length of time it takes Daryl to drag a towel over his hair, the common room is silent, but for the sound of cutlery hitting the side of the cup. The rhythm of it's familiar enough, now, that he catches himself grinning.

At least up until Sasha asks, "So. How was the movie last night?"

"Fine." Paul's tone is neutral, careful, giving nothing away. 

A few footsteps; someone's moving a few steps off, but he can't tell who. 

"Uh-huh," she says drily. "What did you guys watch?"

It's a stupid reaction, the way his heart starts choking off his throat. He's not even the one bein' _asked_ , and though she's clearly teasin' Paul, there's nothing malicious in her tone. So the subsequent urge to barge out there and growl at her is equally pointless. 

But it's there, and he's so wrapped up in it that he misses Paul's reply. 

"So _that's_ how it is, huh? Good on _both_ of you." he hears the grin in her voice, and thinks it would serve her right if he just opened the door and told her to fuck off. She laughs, though, bright and cheerful enough that he's surprised that the thin partition door doesn't start rattling, and instead of doing anything, Daryl just freezes. 

Stands there buck naked, hanging onto his towel, waiting for them both to at least move on, like as long as he's still, they'll forget that he's there. 

Dumb as it is, it seems to work, because by the time he's dressed and ready to open the door, it sounds like the commons is empty.

Paul's still standing there, though, waiting. His eyes are comically wide, the whites of his eyes all the brighter thanks to how red his face still is. "I froze," he admits in a near whisper, fingers tightening around his mug as he forces a smile that only becomes real halfway through. "Sorry. Suffice it to say, I think our fearless leader knows about us."

And whatever nervous wind had been in Daryl's sails, it's gone now. Replaced instead by a weird feeling in his chest. Part of it's relief. That, at least is easily identified; the worst of it is over with, they're both still standing, and _he_ hadn't been the one Sasha'd cornered. 

He likes to think he wouldn't have handled it badly. He's dead _certain_ , though, that he would've gotten the words wrong. Managed to make asses out of everyone involved. 

So he stands in the doorway, ignoring the bead of water trailing down the back of his neck into his collard and wondering how it is that this guy seems to _like_ him, despite the fact that he's got no idea how any of this goes. Because if he's bein' honest- and there's something about the way Paul's looking at him, a little unsettled but grinning anyway, that makes him want to be- his earlier insistence that everything would be fine _might_ have been more of an attempt to will it into being than a statement of actual fact. 

Daryl knows these people, this crew, they ain't Merle. They ain't _dad_ or some dumb hick Clinchfield assholes. But he ain't ever really said anything about it to anyone, ever, not since Merle. And somewhere along the line, it had gone from something he'd spent nights drinking about to something that just never came up, and probably never would, so he'd never really took a minute to figure out _how_. 

But Sasha knows, now. And the world hadn't fallen apart. 

The rest of it- the bursting, warm, chest-strangling sensation that he gets, looking at Paul, who doesn't even realize he'd just slayed a dragon Daryl'd been refusing to admit to worrying about- won't sink in for another hour or so. It'll come on the heels of the way Paul says the word _us_. Like he doesn't need to think about it. Like they're both in this together. 

Because they _are_. And he's kind of figured as much, but hearing it spoken out loud, even as quiet as it is, is going to take some processing. 

"That's cool," he tells Paul, trying not to let on that he's not only thirty seconds past his nerves nearly getting the best of him, and takes the coffee out of his hands; it's more of an excuse to brush their fingers together than anything. And it's the right move, judging by the tension dropping from the corners of Paul's eyes as he sighs. "Told you it wouldn't matter."

He sips the coffee, and hands it back to him carefully, but doesn't let go when Paul reaches for it; he's drifting, and the cup's an anchor, pulling him in to taste coffee and toothpaste and feel the rough edge of where he'd trimmed his beard pricking at his jaw.

The adrenaline is starting to fade, but it's ridiculous, how brave Paul's making him feel right now. 

Maybe not brave enough to not break off the next kiss at the first sound of Dwight's limping footsteps coming up the corridor, but it's a start.


	30. Chapter 30

_Friday, 08/06/2194, 12:10_

"All right, the 45's online and priming," Dwight confirms, his hand appearing to pass the tablet back up through the subfloor access. "Should be good to switch converters once we're leaving the relay." 

Daryl clears the tools away, trying not to smirk at the sound of him cursing as he tries to maneuver back up out of the cramped crawlspace. 

"Need a hand?"

"Ugh, need a fucking _foot_ -" Dwight cuts himself off; Daryl can just make out the edge of his shoulder twisting, and then there's a loud thump directly underneath him, echoing off the panels and shaking the floor. "All right, I'm good."

Another few minutes, and Dwight's clambering up out of the hole, looking irritated as he drags himself out completely to sit on the floor. Instead of standing up, he just starts in on the velcro holding the boot in place.

Daryl doesn't know enough about why it's there, he realizes, to have any opinion on it one way or the other, so it's just as well that this is the exact moment that Sasha decides to poke her head through the cargo bay door. 

"Everyone all right?" she asks, then, reading the scene. "Dwight, what're you doing?"

"This fuckin' thing's been more trouble than it's worth for days."

"Instructions said to leave it on for a month."

Dwight just shakes his head and tosses it aside, letting his legs dangle down into the crawlspace. "It's been at least twenty years. Damn thing's old enough to drink."

She comes closer, crossing her arms and shaking her head; the arch of her eyebrow might mean amusement, might mean irritation. Daryl can't quite tell from here. "They also say to get it under a scanner before going without it. Which we don't currently _have_."

"Good thing there's this thing called a central nervous system, then. Pretty sure I can figure out how that works. You'll just have to trust me." He grins up at her rakishly. It's deliberate, and it works, 'cause she's grinning at him now, happily exasperated. 

"Trust you to fall on your ass the moment your ankle goes out," she mutters, reaching down to help him up. "I reserve the right to tell you I told you so," she smirks. "Probably by lunch time."

"Fair enough," Dwight replies, as Daryl starts to pick up their scattered tools. 

He ain't taking notes, not really. Only maybe he kind of is, 'cause the two of them, they're a few months into their thing, and despite how smooth this week's been going- with Paul and everything- he's admittedly kind of clueless, how to keep it up. 

And Sasha and Dwight, they kind of seem like they've got it figured out.

\---

_Friday, 08/06/2194, 16:02_

Pau's just come up here to sneak another cup of coffee before going back to finish up next week's bridge schedule. It's been messier than most, with the relay and all, and the good likelihood that they're going to have to account for offboard work. He's not expecting to be hissed at the moment he steps into the commons.

"What's up?"

"Sorry," Laura says, sheepishly, looking up from her tablet. "I just. _Hate_ writing these things. System updates and mission reports are one thing, but..."

"Personal files?" He ducks into the kitchen, manages to shake out half a cup of leftover coffee from the carafe.

"Yeah," she scowls, scratching the tattoo on her neck. "Nothing like being millions of miles away from people to suck all the ideas out of your head. Got yours done yet?"

The coffee's disgusting, as usual, but they've been going through sweetener like crazy since Carl started drinking the stuff, and it's his own orders keeping the rest of the supply down in the lockdown stock for another week anyway.

"I work better with damningly looming deadlines," Paul says, his tone carefully light, as if it's the deadline that's the issue. "At least I think so. Been a while since we had one. Kind of hoping that inspiration will strike."

Honestly, he doesn't really think it will, but it's fine. It's been several months since he left, and whatever's going on back on the colony's so far out of his control that chiming in isn't going to help anything. 

But Sasha's right. To think otherwise would kill morale, and everyone's stressed out enough as it is. 

"Same here. Trying to do one for my mom." She turns the tablet around to show him a blank page. "How depressing is that?"

He doesn't know how to answer it. Wishes, honestly, that she wasn't asking him. "She's back home?"

"On Earth. Haven't heard anything for a year and a half now. No idea where to start. " _Dear mom, hope you're okay. Don't worry, but I kind of helped commandeer a ship on an unauthorized mission to Earth, but good news, I'll be home for the holidays. How's the family? Any fatalities?"_

It's hard to tell whether or not she's joking. 

"Well," he says, diplomatically. "I'm sure she'll be glad to hear from you."

"Right up until I try to sort out what I'm supposed to apologize for first." She laughs humorlessly. "Kind of took off on them in a shitstorm. Think I should go chronologically, or order of magnitude?"

"Maybe alphabetically?" 

"Categorically, by subject." This time, the grin actually reaches her eyes. "She's a librarian. Or, she _was_. Think she'd approve."

\--- 

_Friday, 08/06/2194, 17:13_

"I'm just saying, if we had _canning_ supplies, maybe going so heavy on the tomatoes would actually be worth it," Carl's saying. "As it is, we're going to be drowning in bland salsa for three weeks."

"Won't be for long, though," Dwight points out. "The new crop's coming in slow."

"It was worth a shot, though," Sasha tells Spencer. "Moving it to the soil."

Spencer shrugs, shaking his head. "Beats having everything else on that row strangled by the roots, anyway. Another week or so, I'll re-transplant it."

" _Anyway_ ," Mitch says, attempting to get everyone back on track, because they all know what they're here to discuss, gardening debates aside. "We can decide on that _after_ we've cleared relay two. Right now, we still need to make sure we're good to go on our actual objectives, here, so we can get the schedule finalized."

Daryl catches Sasha shooting Carl a conspiratorial eye-roll, but she's straightened in her seat before Mitch glances at her.

"Okay, first thing's first. We're going to need to determine the extent of the damage that we have to predict the relay station's already sustained, and from there, triage any repairs we can." Mitch looks up at Daryl. "What's the over under on that, personnel-wise?"

"No idea."

Dwight, at least, gives the impression of someone who's trying to play along. "Best case scenario, it's online. Worst case scenario, it's obliterated past the point of repair, but at least that means we just move on. It's everything else in between that's going to require extra labor." 

Dwight's glancing at him to confirm, so he does. "Can't do much at this point to extend the drift window, so anything more than a couple of days ain't gonna be worth it."

"Going off the projections," Dwight clarifies, nodding, "we've got two days where we'll be within easy reach of the station. After that, we'll have moved enough that the tethers won't reach. So, really it's not what's _needed_ that's the question, but what we _have_. So... two days, with time to sleep and get the suits charged, we could probably manage four shifts. Six, if we have two more personnel."

Next to Mitch, Paul frowns, thumbing his tablet on, but after a moment, the concern eases. "I was scheduling for a rotating team of four, so that's good to know." He looks over at Mitch. "I'll see what I can do. Do we need two on the bridge for that?"

"The databursts won't take any extra staffing, but Laura or myself should be there to oversee transmission. Also, if we can make direct contact at all, I'm not predicting a stable channel, so I'd like to have as many people on board as possible when we do." Mitch turns to Sasha.

"Carl has priority." She looks around the table, clearly ready to defend the decision. If they'd been predicting any pushback, though, there isn't any. The closest anyone comes is Carl, staring at the table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "In order to keep the transmission clear as it can be, I'd like for the rest of us to hammer out the order of access. If you've got word you need to send to anyone that can't be fit in the databursts, let me or Paul know by tomorrow and we'll try to get you on the line."

"What about ops control?" Carl asks. "That's first priority."

"Next time, yes. Earth will be the priority. But they've got no idea we're coming, so they won't be listening for us until after the databurst pings." Mitch wipes a hand over his face; he'd taken the luxury of shaving yesterday, and he still seems startled by the feeling of his own chin. At least he's too distracted by that to continue on with what they're all thinking anyway.

There's no point to worrying about Earth, not really. They're all too-well prepared for disappointment on that front. If, by some luck Carl can get in touch with his family, they'll chalk this up as a win. The bigger concern, Daryl figures, is powering down enough to switch drive control over to the 45. And that's more of an issue once they're leaving. 

Which leaves only one elephant left in the room. After exchanging glances with Laura, Spencer's finally the one to address it.

"What about the Ambition?"

"I don't know," Mitch admits. "The scanners _are_ showing signs of a lot of debris. At this point, and at our current resolution, it seems pretty condensed. Getting through it is, I'm afraid to admit, my biggest concern."

"That said," Sasha continues, "if there's any chance we can do something- like recover the flight recorder, or map a path through it- maybe even nudging things out of the lane if we have the time, we should make the effort."

Laura's quiet for a long moment, but Mitch is already waiting on her. "Protocol states that we're supposed to recover the bodies. We don't have the room, though." 

"Ignoring the _at risk of personal safety_ clause, yes. It does. And I'm not happy about this, but given the scope of the damage we're heading into, I do not want to overextend ourselves shoving boulders uphill. That said, if are any simple, manageable actions we can take, I am willing to approve them, situation permitting. Does that work?"

Nobody's really been expecting anything else; Laura and Paul both nod distractedly. 

It's fucked up, Daryl thinks. This whole stop. Sure, he gets that there's always _something_ to worry about with them. But honestly, apart from the jump drive modification and the arm retrieval there's not much to it. 

And maybe that's why everyone's sittin' around looking so glum. Fixating on _maybes_ and not knowin' anything solid.

\--- 

_Friday, 08/06/2194, 19:30_

"Just go _get_ them already," Sasha's telling Carl, as they clear up the dinner table. "Another three days and they'll be sentient enough to take over the ship."

"Yeah, yeah," Carl rolls his eyes as Mitch and Laura try not to laugh. 

Paul takes the cups from Sasha, since it's an awkward corner, and carries them the three steps it takes to get around the end of the table to the kitchen, where he stacks them next to where Daryl's on cleanup duty. 

"Hey, gonna hit book club for a bit." Daryl says, clearing the plates off into the composter, and nodding out towards the commons with a look that's apologetic bordering on worried. "Promised Carl." More quietly, he adds, "so, like. After that?"

"Sounds good." 

It's a mild snag in the plan, to the extent that they have one, but he gets it. Daryl hasn't been spending much time with Carl at all, lately. 

Besides. If he doesn't make himself sit down and work on his letters, he's just going to be thinking about them all night anyway. Maybe _this_ deadline will work. 

\--- 

_Everything's fine here. Well, ups and downs. Nearly died when the walls of the infirmary spontaneously combusted- the room went into lockdown and now I know what it feels like to nearly suffocate to death, so that's been interesting._

_It's not all that exciting, though. Usually it's just the opposite. Too many hours, too many conversations about how the garden is doing or how the long range sensors should best be calibrated, too much time spent with the same half dozen people. Too much time with the same people wanting to avoid the same topics: what's happening back home, what are we getting into, where and how are we going to land this thing, and what're we going to do then._

_It's been bad, this week. Just the notion of sending word out, whether or not it gets heard, is like this fucked up reminder that there's a reality outside of this ship, whatever it is, and this overhanging sense that whatever it is, it's no better than here._

_That said, I hope the strip's intact enough that you can get some noodles, occasionally. Or potatoes. No, scratch that, BREAD._

_I miss bread._

_God, this is a lot whinier than I'd meant for it to be. Sorry about that._

_One more thing, and then I'll stop with the depressing shit: Connor's dead. There was a problem with his suit._

_It happened three weeks ago. It seems like a lot longer, though. Time's weird out here. Things either seem like they happened three hours ago, or three years ago. I don't really know how to explain it._

_So- and this is going to sound callous, probably- I'm not going to try and figure it out. It's Friday and I'm tired and I'm getting this down in a rush so I can upload it, get it off my plate, and meet up with Daryl to watch a movie._

_There's not much to do for dates around here. Seriously, you don't appreciate shitty nightclubs and Saturday night on the strip until you're stuck onboard an RV for three months._

_But yeah. I've got a date tonight. Kind of sort of._

_Daryl's cool. Quiet- it took forever to actually start talking with him- but smart as hell. Funny, too, when there aren't too many eyes on him._

_There's no bullshit with him. No trying to figure out the angles, no worrying about the whole Admin gossip cycle, no vying for position to get an in with the council or negotiate engineering priorities. He's just real about things. Like if he says it, he means it._

_He's Techniki. He can fix anything- though it's usually by more brute force than I'm honestly comfortable watching. But it's more than that, though. He's not, like, so wrapped up in how something ought to work that he's unable to try a different approach. He's okay with just rolling with it and getting his hands dirty._

_You want me to get shallow? Sure, I'll go there: he's fit, and I liked his arms before I liked the rest of him. Got a bit of gray in his beard- we all have them now, it's the new look. When he does smile, you kind of feel like you earned it. Usually, he's scowling though. Looks like he could kick your ass- because he can- but he's kind of a teddy bear._

_Don't tell him I said that._

_The scariest thing about him is that if things hadn't gone so bad back home, we probably wouldn't have met. I'll tell you about that, sometime. It's kind of a funny story, now that the bones have all healed up._

_Love,_

_Paul_

If he turned on the overhead light, it would at least reduce the glare burning into his retinas. Even with the amount of text he's put on the page, and the screen dialed down, his tablet's painful to look at. 

He scrolls up to the top of the entry form, and clicks into the _to_ field, watching the cursor blink listlessly. 

He's managed to fill a whole page, no problem. But he's got nothing at all for this. 

So he scrolls back down into the message. Highlights the whole thing, and deletes it. 

\--- 

_Friday, 08/06/2194, 23:55_

There ain't much to mark time with, out here. They're halfway there. Situation bein' different, it might've been an excuse to break out the whiskey and unwind. 

Maybe it's just delayed, and once they're through it, things'll look better. 

Which doesn't do a whole lot against this weird awkward guilt he's been draggin' around with him since lunchtime. It's Friday, and where that would've once meant a few more credits in the bank and a trip down to the strip, it's a whole lot _more_ , now. 

Apart from a quiet, wide grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up from Sasha the moment she'd caught him headin' up to the bridge to hang out with Paul the other night, there hasn't been any talk around the ship, unless everyone else is somehow more circumspect that he gives them credit for. 

Carl's probably about to catch on, though, if he hasn't already. 

"You never watch TV," he'd said, when Daryl'd knocked on his door to borrow the vid player this afternoon. 

_I've got a date_. He hadn't said it, but the awareness had been there. That he could've. 

"Got some time to kill."

"You get your messages done?" Carl had barely glanced up from his tablet; he'd managed to fill the entire screen with text. 

Aside from a note to Rick and Michonne, reporting that Carl's fine, that _everything_ is mostly fine, now, there hadn't been much that would make anyone colonyside sleep easier at night, so he'd left it at that and called it good. 

There might've been a draft, though, existing only on his screen for a few seconds, where he'd tried telling Rick about Paul. He'd gotten halfway through typing his name before deleting it, not knowing where to go from there and suspecting that he should've been able to.

"Yeah," he'd told Carl. "You?"

"Still got Maggie and Enid. Gonna work on them after book club," Carl replies, glancing over at him. "You coming tonight?"

He'd said that he'd gotten caught up over breakfast, and Carl had brightened, actually looking up from his tablet to launch into some theory regarding Hard Eyes' backstory and his predictions for where the story'd be going next. It hadn't taken much effort to get swept up into the enthusiasm, but after half an hour or so, the realization that it was probably due to how little they'd actually been hanging out, lately. Carl hadn't said as much, but he'd been talking a mile a minute, like he didn't think he'd be getting another shot at it.

It had been on the tip of his tongue to apologize, to explain what he's been up to and why he ain't been around, but Carl hadn't asked, and right then, listening to him geek out over the book had seemed more important. There hadn't been no sense making it weird by putting too fine a point on it. 

At least not until he's talked to Paul. 

\---

Paul had gone back to his quarters to finish up his messages after dinner, but he's not there when he knocks on the door after book club, and even though they hadn't set an exact time or anything, it's a more unsettling than Daryl wants to admit. 

He'd probably just gotten bored waiting for him. And if he was sayin' it out loud, he ain't sure where he'd put the emphasis.

So he takes a breath, releases it. Decides that he's overthinking it, and heads down to the cargo bay. 

The overhead lights are off, but the bright glare of the grow lights is enough that the rest of the room seems even darker by comparison. There's not much to look at anyway, though. The bay's empty. 

Thing is, if he'd doubled back, he would've passed him. Only place left to check is the infirmary. 

Only as he turns, his eyes, finally adjusted to the relative darkness, catch the hint of movement over by the crates. Even after years on the colony, slipping back into tracker mode is easy: focusing on no one thing, casting a wide net to lock onto what he needs to be noticing. 

And then he does, over past the garden and at the end of the first aisle of crates. 

Paul sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, hands in his hair and elbows braced against his knees, but he's noticed him coming, he's looking up. 

Which would be a better sign if he didn't miserable enough to stop him in his tracks. It takes him a beat to will his feet into motion, to approach close enough to smell the alcohol. It's kind of fucking scary, if he's bein' honest- this kind of worry's still new, he ain't well-versed in it- and he feels like he's choking when he stops, a few feet away, and crouches down. 

"What's up?"

"Nothing." The bleak look he gets in return fades, a bit, and Paul's scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly trying to pull himself together. He's got dirt under his fingernails, which has become more common for everyone lately, now that the garden's started overgrowing its frame. Usually it's Sasha, chipping in, or Laura. Nobody seems willing to admit that it's more about the lights and signs of life than it is about the efficiency of their farming operation, and he hasn't asked. But it doesn't look like it's been working, either. 

"Bullshit."

Paul's laughter is brittle as he knocks his head back against the wall, but he scoots over a bit, making room. When Daryl sits down next to him, he picks up the bottle that's sitting at his side and hands it over. 

It's hard to tell whether he's already made much of a dent, but _that's_ probably not the real issue, here. 

"Sorry," Paul says. "I know we're supposed to be meeting up."

The words are nearly lost under Daryl's own train of thought. He doesn't know how to do this. Relationships. Breakups, if that's what this is. They haven't put names on anything yet, he's not sure if this warrants that status yet. 

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. Not in the long run. They've got a few months to go, there's a thousand and some people back home, waiting on them to fix things. The rest of the trip will be awkward and hellish, but he can swallow it down as long as it stops Paul from avoiding his eyes like _this_ , like he's doin' right now. 

They're both quiet long enough that he's able to reconstruct what Paul had actually said. 

"Well, we're met up," he replies, trying to lighten the mood, "so it's all good there, at least." When all Paul does is nod, he takes a pull from the bottle, takes a breath, and just asks, again. "What's goin' on?"

Paul shrugs, and shakes his head. But then he's leaning over, into him a bit. 

Daryl doesn't think he'd be doin' that if he was breakin' it off with him. But he ain't said shit to the contrary about it, neither. 

"I dunno," Paul shrugs, eventually. "Just. Was sitting in my room earlier, and everything kind of blindsided me." 

_Oh._

All he can do is wait. Try to clutch at his lead, follow it through. 

"Okay."

Suddenly, Paul's turning to look at him, enough fire in his eyes to be curious, and then realization must dawn because he sighs out a halfhearted laugh. "Shit. Sorry. No, I mean. The past few days, the letters. Spending all my time staring at an empty screen thinking that I should put something down and not really seeing the point in trying."

He just nods, because he's so relieved that he thinks he might sound too happy for whatever's going on in Paul's head. And while it feels like a calculated risk, when he wraps his arm around Paul's shoulder, it's only awkward for a moment. 

He keeps his eyes on the garden, partially because it's the brightest thing in his field of vision, and partially because the last thing people want, when they're miserable, is people starin' at them. "Think everyone's been there, more or less."

"What about you?"

"Dropped a line to Rick and Michonne, telling them that Carl's fine." He takes a moment to think about how to phrase the rest of it. "After that, couldn't think of anything else that would make anyone back there more at ease, so..."

"What about people back home?" Paul doesn't move for the bottle when Daryl offers it, so he sets it down between his knees instead. 

"Nobody's listenin' there. Couldn't see the point." He knows that Laura and Mitch have been talking about it some. Having made this trip, in some way or another, ten times between them, it's less fraught for them. But Sasha's got some sort of essay she's had ready to go for a week or so now, back to her family. "Who you tryin' to write to?"

"Kind of like you said. Not going to help my colleagues out with a bunch of stuff that has nothing to do with whatever issues have cropped up since I left, and anything important's already in the mission updates." Paul sighs, splaying the fingers of his left hand out on his knee, stretching them. He's quieter, when he eventually continues. "Didn't really have much by way of friends and family left out there."

At that, Daryl finally thinks he's really got a hook into the conversation. 

It's hard to be homesick when home don't give a shit. Though he doesn't know, really, if it's actually homesickness that he's talking about. 

_Bullshit_ , he wants to say.

But it ain't like he knows it is, and he _does_ know what it's like if it ain't. 

He should probably be tellin' him that it's worthwhile, though, letting people know he's okay- it's true, after all- but that's pots and kettles. 

"Yeah," he says instead. "Been long enough on this ship that I'm forgettin' about people too." 

He can sense Paul turning to look at him, so he chooses his words carefully, 'cause announcing the truth of it- which is that there's nobody on two planets that he gives a damn about that ain't already on this ship- might be presumptuous, if that's not where Paul's head's at. "Leaving Earth was easy, at the end there," he says instead. "Haven't spoken to anyone back there since I left."

He thinks about Mitch and Laura, who've gone back and forth a dozen times now, and of Sasha, knowing that it's a moot point but trying anyway. And he thinks about Carol, for the first time in weeks. Things bein' just a bit different, he could maybe see himself writing to her. But on top of everything else- the time, the distance, the knowledge that she'd left chasin' after some kind of clean break and fresh start- he doesn't know where she's from, and can't remember ever _having_ known. 

It would be depressing, but it's already forgotten, because Paul's digging his right thumb against the palm of his left hand, like it's botherin' him, and shit. 

Maybe they ain't as far from the colony as Daryl would like. 

"Fuck," he says, going direct because getting up and retreating is probably not an option, here. "That still bothering you?"

"It's not too bad," Paul says, stretching the fingers out again; looking at it that closely, he can see that the pinky's not lined up quite like it should be, and there's some scarring where the skin had broken.

Where _Daryl_ had broken the skin, the bones. All of it. 

"C'mere," he says, reaching for it, a little surprised when Paul lets him. He doesn't really know how to give massages, but heat and pressure tend to help when shit's getting' sore. It ain't rocket science. 

"Mostly just itches," Paul assures him, shifting closer.

 _Sure_. "Yeah, well."

Paul lets him go at it for a few minutes, but eventually it's either worked or just gotten really annoying, because he's pulling away. He twists his wrist, though, capturing both of Daryl's hands in his grip. 

" _Hey_. Knock it off."

"Sorry." 

Paul's fingers tighten around his. "Don't be. Was just thinking, before you get too far down bad memory lane..." He swings his leg over Daryl's, the rest of him following the movement until he's crouching over Daryl's lap. He looks better, now. More awake, at least. "One, it's better now. And two, I've used up our wallowing allotment for today already."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Paul says, grabbing the bottle and setting it carefully aside before leaning in. It's a question, easily answered. 

\--- 

"You hear something?"

He can barely see Daryl's eyes between the closeness and the shadows; his own shoulder's cutting a dark swath against his forehead. He's starting to have a hard time focusing, because Daryl's arms are sliding down his back and his hands are on his hips, now, steadying him. Pinned like Paul's got him, that's nearly the extent of Daryl's available movement. 

Paul takes a breath- needs it more than he's realized- and lets it out, as quiet as he can, listening.

Footsteps upstairs, in the corridor. 

It's not _that_ late, after all.

But then, after a moment, there's nothing. His shoulder's unclench, his back eases, he crashes down against Daryl just a little bit more. 

And under his hands, he can feel Daryl's neck twitching in silent laughter as he's pulled back down to meet lips still tensed from the grin. They open up against Paul's, though, confidence regained; this time, it's Daryl who deepens the kiss. 

Paul's trying not to start grinding down on him- they shouldn't be doing this here, they should cool off- but then the grip on his hip tightens like the message's been received anyway. Noted and filed away with everything else that isn't _this_ , right _now_ and-

Shit. 

He sighs, irritably, against Daryl's chin, because-

There it is again. 

And no, he's not just getting spooked. They both know the sound of boots on the steps all too well. 

He pulls back, squeezing Daryl's shoulders. Has to squint down at him. 

Daryl looks irritated, but he smirks, rolling his eyes as he nods, and quietly, _carefully_ , Paul eases back to get off of him. He's easing down against the wall again- still too close to Daryl's side, probably- when the overheads come on, and Spencer's coming into the cargo bay.

He doesn't see them at first, though they're a straight shot down the aisle from where he's standing, prodding at the tomato plant he'd transplanted out of hydro and into the bucket of pressure-composted kitchen scraps they've been saving. Humming to himself, Spencer pokes down at the soil, shaking his head. 

Paul can see the moment that they're first caught in his peripheral. It happens mid-shake, causing his eyes to narrow, his head to lift up. He blinks, either trying to focus or trying to understand what he's seeing. 

By that point, his eyes widening in embarrassment is almost a foregone conclusion. 

"Shit," he says, a little too loudly, which at least lays to rest any suspicion that he's not going to catch on to what he's just interrupted here. "Sorry. I-"

"It's cool," Paul says. He can feel the face stretching over his grin; his skin feels itchy. Everything else just feels raw and overexposed. He brings his knees up and twists to reach for the bottle; sitting back agains gives him the chance to edge a few inches away from Daryl, and also to get a quick read on his expression. 

Spencer, of course, has already clocked it; he looks appropriately terrified, like he's the one caught in headlights, here. 

It's not as if he's got any real hope of salvaging the situation from it's awkward descent, but sometimes the only way around is through. 

"So." He holds up the bottle, offering it to Spencer. "Fancy a drink?"


	31. Chapter 31

_Tuesday, 08/10/2194, 12:17_

His weight shifts, and Paul wakes up.

There's music, out in the corridor, probably being piped over the comms. It's quiet, but upbeat. Apart from that, he's not sure that the ship's ever really been this kind of quiet. For a moment, it's almost like being underwater, with nothing between him and the noises that are usually buried underneath the constant hum of the engines. 

Sasha's in the commons, talking with Spencer; Carl's laughing. Down in the lower corridor, something heavy is being dragged out and clanking dully against the wall. He can hear the ventilation system working, and the sound of the dishwasher completing its sterilization cycle.

Which means the engines have been cut. They've arrived. 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he flicks the blanket aside to find stars on the other side. Millions of them, easily, dense enough in areas that he thinks he can almost see a system to them. 

And then, much closer, a sheet of metal, gnarled at the edges, tumbles by slowly. It should be depressing, but it's been a while since he's found himself curious to see more, so he gets dressed, pulling on yesterday's coveralls and a fresh pair of socks before padding up to the commons to join the others and see what's what. 

Carl, Sasha and Spencer are crowded against the small window at the base of the bridge ladder. When Spencer notices him, he waves him over to look, with only a brief glance past Paul's shoulder. Quick enough, no doubt, to ascertain that he's alone. Which might turn out to be a good thing, because while Paul might still be Admin enough to roll with Spencer's ongoing show of conspicuous friendliness, Daryl'd been half-ready to kick his teeth in the moment he'd caught onto it. 

"Rubberneck while you can," Mitch tells him, as he and Laura come down the steps, crowding the corridor enough that Paul has to press himself against the wall so the two of them can pass. "Got it holding on autopilot. Gonna grab a quick bite, let the sensors run their full course." 

The moment Laura's edged past and stepped into the commons, she's rolling her head on her shoulders and stretching her arms over her head, her wrists grazing the low ceiling as she twists to look back at the clock. "God damn," she grumbles at Mitch. "Two hours my _ass_ , that was _six_. I'm starved."

"Two at the _least_. My exact words." Mitch moves to follow her, smirking. Pausing next to the control panel, he elbows the button to go shipwide. "Okay, listen up. We've cleared the debris field, and are holding. 30 minutes and we'll get everyone briefed, the day's shaping up to be a lot longer than we thought so everyone get ready."

When Paul's finally able to look out the window, he immediately understands why. 

Some thirty yards out, up ahead of them and off to the side, glinting in a dark starless field of space, is one very _intact_ relay station. 

"Is everything where it should be?" he asks Sasha. 

"Looks like it survived. Must've gotten blasted clear by the shockwave, then managed to work its way back into position." She shrugs; they won't know for sure until the scans are complete, and maybe not even then. "The quarter panels are kind of screwed up, though. Look." 

She points, though from this distance it isn't particularly illuminating. After staring at it for a few seconds, he can just make out the damage, wrapping around the far side. From here, it's easy to write it off as superficial.

"Yeah," Carl adds, excitedly, jostling Paul and nudging Sasha's hand out of the way. "But look at _that!_ "

"What?"

" _Behind_ it."

"What?" There's nothing. 

Only there is. 

All he can discern at first, beyond the relay station, is an oddly straight delineation, an edge of stars hitting up against solid darkness. Following Carl's lead, he cups his hands against the cold window to block out the corridor lights. 

The edge starts to take shape, but before he can make sense of it or even look at Carl to ask, Sasha's calling up to the bridge. "Hey Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you get the spotlight on that?"

"Uh. Yeah, hang on."

Paul's just starting to make sense of the enormity of it when he's blinded, suddenly, by light reflecting off _far_ more metal than there should be. 

_Holy shit._

It's the Ambition. Part of it, anyway. 

A hundred meters out, just past what he estimates to be the outer edge of the lane, it's listing there, top facing them. Its spine is blown out, the gray-painted metal of the hull shining too brightly along too many torn edges. The back end of it is missing entirely, clouded in minor debris that does little to hide the open dead maw of the interior.

Despite everything he knows, it just doesn't make sense, the _nothing_ where the back end of the ship should be, or the fact that even this much has somehow stayed together at all. Judging by size the field the last time he'd checked the long range sensors, he'd honestly been expecting to find it completely vaporized. 

"The scans showed-"

"We were on the wrong side of the debris field until a little while ago," Laura says from behind him. "Scanner visualization sucks."

Apparently so, because somehow, it had hidden what seems to be nearly _half_ of a transport-grade _cruiser_. 

For a few moments, the mere fact of it's existence is so surprising that what it _means_ doesn't really have the chance to sink in. 

"Must've happened on the final approach," Mitch says, coming back to stand next to him. Rehydrated beans and rice forgotten, he gestures towards the ship. "Positioning thrusters must've already been engaged. Kept it from getting propelled further out or further down the lane. Looks like it's been spinning for a bit, though. Think some of that might still be moving."

The cloud, now that Paul's managed to make visual sense of it, does seem to have a helix shape to it, though it's hard to tell from this angle. He stares long enough that he's convinced he sees it move, but he can't be sure.

\--- 

"Holy shit," Dwight says, when they come up from the cargo bay to find Mitch still staring out the window. 

"You're fucking kidding me," Daryl echoes, shaking his head. "Doesn't look too bad." He grins sardonically at Mitch. "Think we can get it running again?"

At the table, Spencer's shaking his head at Laura, smirking. "Slow down, you're gonna make yourself sick before you even suit up."

Making a face, Laura shovels more food into her mouth. "I'm fine, we've been up top since _four_ , and the sooner we get out there..." She twists in her seat to look at Mitch. "So, _captain_ , any clearer idea what happened?"

"Not really."

Mitch finally turns away from the view he's been studying for the past ten minutes, and brings his forgotten lunch back to the table to sit down. "Best I can guess is that the explosion happened in the back of the ship. Managed to seal it off, but the damage was done. There was enough torque involved that the back half started to twist, which is why the rest of the ship split open like that."

"Could anyone have survived?"

Mitch pulls a dubious face, but like the rest of them, he seems to be so caught up in the fact that it's there at all that there's not much mournful regret in the expression. "If they got wind of it before it happened, and managed to make it to the pods, maybe. Been a while since I've been on board a transport-class, but most of them would've been on the back half of the ship."

"Underneath the secondary cargo bays," Laura confirms, talking with her mouth full, then glancing out through the commons door at the window, like she's checking for something she's hoping not to see. Paul's suspicions- that maybe they _did_ see something awful, bringing the RV in- are confirmed when Mitch nods at her.

When Sasha changes the subject, it feels deliberate. 

"How long before we drift out of range of all this?"

"Five days or so; we managed to come to a near-complete stop." Mitch clears his throat. "And, as tantalizing as the ship is, our focus needs to be on the relay. Getting a transmission line open is our main objective, here. Only after that will we discuss any further exploration, is that clear?" 

He looks around the table; everyone nods in consensus. 

"And yeah, Laura. Seriously, slow down. Don't want to be hauling your ass back in because you've made yourself seasick ten minutes out"

\--- 

_Tuesday, 08/10/2194, 16:45_

The system had managed to connect to the relay hours ago, but it's been downhill from there. 

First had been the power issues, thanks to the singed wires that had needed replacing. Then, it wouldn't lock on to the ship's position, which meant it didn't know how to reposition itself for the best signal. Resetting the system and pinging it again had eventually worked, but then they'd discovered the gear damage as the rudder tried to shift, clicking uselessly. 

Rather than moving the RV, Dwight and Laura'd wound up having to kickboard it a few meters closer just to get it in range; watching through the window as they passed it between them, nudging it closer and slowing it down, had been excruciating.

Finally, they're just having a run of the mill communications issue. The connection's there, both terminals are showing green. It's just the signal between them that's nonexistent. 

Sasha and Mitch have the bridge, and Paul's got one leg through the rungs of the ladder, bracing himself against either side of the upper corridor wall, his tablet in his lap. It doesn't look comfortable, but he seems content enough as the three of them troubleshoot the software. 

"How's it coming?"

Paul gives the tablet a murderous glare. " _Slow_. But at least we've got half a dozen things we're pretty sure it's _not_. What're you up to?"

"Spencer's spelling me, just hitting the head and grabbing some coffee."

Paul nods, looks like he's about to say something, but then Sasha's calling down to him again. "Okay, we're switched to port seven. Try now."

Back downstairs, willing the half-cup of cold coffee he'd managed to extract from the pot to kick in, he finds Spencer and Carl leaning against the wall next to the tether controls and looking like the novelty of their situation has definitely worn off. 

Spencer's the first to look lively. "How's it looking up there?"

He starts to shake his head, but catches himself before Carl can. "They're on it. Seem to be making process."

He's barely finished speaking when the shipwide crackles to life. 

"Good news, folks, we got it. Carl, report to the bridge ASAP, I don't know how much time we're going to have. Dwight, Laura, quit fucking around and get back in here."

Daryl takes over Carl's position on the tethers as they begin the slow process of reeling their crewmates and their equipment back towards the ship and into the airlock. 

It's tedious, but uneventful. Between Dwight, Laura, their compressors, tethers, tool aprons and kickboard rigs, it's a lot to untangle, not least because of the equipment haul line they'd used to send parts out to them back when it had seemed easier than them coming back in and retrieving them themselves. By the time Dwight and Laura are divested of their harnesses and helmets, they look worn out and cranky.

Given the fact they've been hanging out there waiting for instruction with nothing to do but watch their oxygen levels and try not to drop anything, it's probably to be expected. 

"Please tell me there's coffee," Laura says, undoing the seals of her suit with practiced ease. 

"No idea,"' Daryl says. "But go on up ahead, I got this."

Dwight similarly waves Spencer off- after Carl, he's probably the one with the biggest stake in the relay proceedings- and the two of them straighten out the gear. The compressors are rotated to the end of the line for recharging. Same goes for the kickboards. Daryl hauls the suits out to the infirmary, since the overhead light- at least that's still functional- is best there, and sets them on the bench for a more thorough inspection. When he returns, Dwight's got one of the tethers completely unreeled, and is going over it inch by inch, looking for any signs of kinking or fraying. 

In that regard at least, the line's got him beat. 

"What's up?"

"Laura insisted on playing I Spy while we were sitting out there with our thumbs up our asses."

"Sounds thrilling."

"Boring as hell, yeah. But, there's still debris out there. Couldn't recognize most of it, mostly just broken shit." Dwight finishes reeling in the tether. "Couple of bodies, too. And what might've been a leg."

Daryl gets to work on the other reel, letting Dwight move on to the equipment haul line. Can't think of anything to say, so he doesn't. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 08/10/2194, 22:08_

Off to the right, the relay station is still hanging there, for all the good it seems to be doing them. If he turned the spotlights on, he'd be able to make out the Ambition's front end. Instead- and he's not too sorry for it- he's got to content himself with the best unobscured view of space he thinks he's ever really had. 

His first three hours had been spent just trying to remember the types of stars he's looking at, and trying not to get dizzy from staring too hard. He'd located Arcturus easily enough, once he'd leaned over the dashboard to find the white-yellow-verging-on-pink of it glinting off to his left. Up ahead and to the left, there's a cloud of gas and dust, billowing in gray and blue. It's too far away to pick up on the long range sensors, or even show up as a navigation note in the nav system, so he has no idea how large it is. There's another star, no doubt light years past that, glinting red past its shoulder. 

There are just _millions_ of them, most of them still. 

Daryl, since his arrival fifteen minutes ago, seems to be more concerned with the debris that's floating in the immediate vicinity. The field isn't particularly dense up here- they'd passed through the worst of it on the approach, but every so often, something will drift past close enough to the running lights to suddenly appear in the windshield, before eventually moving out of range. 

None of it is moving particularly fast. There's no wind out here, this far out from any heavy gravitational bodies- that's why they'd chosen it as a relay location, after all. Which means that everything that _is_ moving is a result of the ongoing disintegration of the ship. 

The rate at which it's happening is not something Paul can determine, even if he wanted to. 

"This is the Sagan RV, NATOPS code 5174B, reporting in from RS2 on channel 1," Paul reads from the script taped to the dashboard, though he's long since memorized it. "And broadcasting databurst packet wide on channel 2. Please respond and identify." 

"How long you gotta be keeping that up for?" Daryl asks, the second time he transmits the message. 

"Spencer's taking over at midnight. Figured we'd keep the sleep deprivation contained amongst tomorrow's non-essential personnel." Paul rubs his eyes and looks over at Daryl. " _We're_ doing this every half-hour, until we pull out of range or Mitch says otherwise." 

"Sucks. Even if it works, we ain't going to have any idea if anyone got it." He sounds tiredly irritated, but it's not completely unexpected. For a while there, before their failures at hailing anyone on Earth or the Colony had started to pile up, everyone had been hopeful, nearly giddy. But by the time dinner had rolled around, there'd been nothing but worn drawn faces picking idly at their plates, listening to the channel Sasha'd left open for the decreasingly likely sounds of a response. 

"I have an idea, though. You think there any way we could automate it? Upload the databurst to the relay, keep it going after we leave?"

"Mitch might know. Worth askin' him, anyway."

"Yeah."

"Probably gonna drain the battery, though."

That's true, but he's not sure how much to care. If they don't reach Earth, if they can't get help, nobody's going to be coming out here to make any use of the relay anyhow. It could be years before anyone else would come across it, and given the luck they've had so far, despite their repairs, the relay would probably be dead in the water anyway. 

Same goes for the colony. 

And he really doesn't need to be thinking about that, so he changes the subject. "How's Carl doing?"

"Alright, considering," Daryl says, after a moment, then lets out a halfhearted laugh. "He's getting better at poker. Kicked my ass. Lost a day's shower to him, and he's got a veto on my choice of music, like it even matters. But he caught a dishes shift off of Spencer, and Dwight owes me an inventory shift, so in the end I came out ahead." 

"You bet an entire inventory shift?"

"Guy needs to get some exercise, if he wants his foot to heal up right." Daryl stretches, blinks up at the ceiling, letting out a yawn. "Fuck."

"You should turn in," he says, coming short of what Daryl's probably acutely aware of anyway: tomorrow's going to be a long, dangerous, no-mistakes kind of day.

Nodding distractedly, Daryl sits up, but doesn't move any further, and Paul checks the readings before twisting in his seat, kissing him goodnight, trying not to worry, and reminding himself that _yeah_ , things aren't perfect right now, but they're no worse off than before, and it ain't all bad.


	32. Chapter 32

_Wednesday, 08/11/2194, 13:00_

The data recorder had probably been stashed for years before Daryl'd dug it up out of one of the old research equipment crates, but he'd managed to record a message and set it to loop. After that it had just been a matter of running Paul's idea by Sasha, and letting her and Mitch decide. 

Connecting it with the relay station's been Dwight's job. Surprisingly, it had only taken him thirty minutes to connect, test, and stabilize the box. Mitch had been out there to provide a second set of hands and a lookout, more than anything else. All in all, the entire offboard op had only taken an hour.

Now that they're back in, and have checked that they're still listening for any response, and have sat through about an hour's worth of instructions, warnings, and disturbingly specific advice, the two of them are cleared to head out to the Ambition. 

This one's probably not going to be done with inside of an hour. 

First, there's the distance. It's 87 meters out. Even with the range extender, which they'll drop at the halfway point, they won't have much by way of slack once they get over there, and if they can't find anything stable to latch onto at the other end, the entire operation's a wash anyway.

And then there's the debris. Everything from the initial explosion had been scattered back into the lane; they've already made their way through it. But the ship's still shedding, mostly from the back end, and things are moving out there. Too slowly to cut their tethers or the equipment haul lines, should something come into contact with them, but enough to snag. Laura, knowing her way around the kickboards, has been cleared to unclip in the event of an emergency. He hasn't been. 

On top of all that, there's the matter of the Ambition itself. It's not just the lack of gravity and life support, they don't know how the internal structure is holding up. There's going to be cargo and gear and probably bodies floating all over the place. 

Which is why, when Sasha comes knocking on his door as he's getting ready- or at least sittin' on his bed, staring at the wall, wonderin' what kind of idiot shit he'd signed on for- there's a moment where he just backs out of the whole goddamned thing. 

"You doing all right?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? You don't have to be doing this."

"We got the time. NATOPS might be interested in the flight recorder and all that." _A show of good faith,_ is what Paul had called it. It ain't the same as a bargaining chip, but it's something. "Laura thinks the infirmary might've been left intact. Would rest easier if we had ours up and running again."

"Yeah, well. I'll rest easier once you're back on board. You sure you don't want to wait? Let Mitch rest up a bit more?"

"If shit goes south, we need him in play to drag our asses back in. If it's just him and her out there when shit goes wrong, we're all fucked." He turns to look out the window, but the overhead lights are on; all he can see is his own silhouetted face and Sasha's torso. "Sides," he shrugs. "Longer we wait, the twitchier we're all gonna be."

"All right, well. If you're sure." She spreads out her arms, and he stands up, returning the hug. "Me and Carl are on the lines, first shift, and we won't be going far after that."

He nods, squeezes once and lets her go. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 08/11/2194, 13:48_

He can't watch any more. 

The kiss for luck he'd managed to snag up at the top of the ladder had been quick. Maybe too quick. He'd helped check their suits and their lines, he'd watched Carl and Sasha do the same, and they'd taken so long making sure their harnesses and anchors were right that Mitch had called down three times to ask them if they were quite ready, yet. 

And then he'd backed out of the way, until his legs had hit one of the lockdown crates, and he'd just watched. The airlock door had opened; they'd stepped through. He'd listened to them check and re-check their tether lines and give the all-clear before the inner door had closed. 

There'd been the hiss of a slow, careful depressurization, and then Laura and Daryl had switched to radio. 

"Bridge, get the spotlights on, we're good to go," Laura'd said, and Daryl'd echoed her. 

And now, he can hear the outer door cranking open. 

"Two meters to start, then wait for anchor confirmation." Laura instructs. 

Turns out, just listening might be worse. Paul gets up, quietly, determined not to distract Sasha or Carl as he eases past them to head for the upper deck, but Carl glances up at him anyway. 

"We got them," he promises, nodding once before turning to the controls.

"Thanks," he says, irritated at how tensely it comes out and how useless he _is_ , right now. 

His escape up the ladder is not nearly efficient as it could be. 

At the end of the corridor, up by the bridge steps, Spencer's scowling out the window, arms crossed, and _that_ is not the kind of company he wants right now, so instead Paul ducks into his quarters. He checks to make sure that the comms isn't muted, shuts off the overhead, and drags the blanket off the window. 

"Okay, I'm good," Daryl's saying. 

"On my mark, open my reel. I want free rein, please confirm."

"Confirmed," Sasha and Carl reply. "Standing by."

"All right," Laura says, pausing, and then, to Daryl. "One more time. I'm going to go first, give you something to aim at. Just plant your feet like this before you jump. It'll give you more control, but don't worry about it too much.... yeah, like that. Once you reach the end, engage the kickboard to get back into position."

"Two meters. Room to set anchor."

"Right," Laura says, and then, more clearly. "Okay, Carl, how about that slack?"

"You've got it."

"Bridge?"

"Go ahead any time," Mitch says, from the bridge. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Jumping now." 

He has time to blink before he spots Laura swimming through the air, clutching the tether extender to her chest as her own line trails out behind her. Slowly, she brings her feet down and her elbows up, pulling a move with the kickboard that slows her down without sending her too far off course as she gently reaches the end of her tether. 

Daryl, when it's his turn, seems to be going _far_ too fast, but apparently it's not, because he winds up within a few meters of where Laura's waiting. For a minute, the two of them drift aimlessly. 

"You good?" she asks.

"Yeah," he laughs, sounding exhilarated, like this is the most fun he's had in months. "You?" 

"Never better."

Laura maneuvers closer to him, maneuvering her kickboard somewhat awkwardly around the extender clipped to her harness.

"Got it."

"Let me check... yeah. Good. All right. Dial down to ten percent."

"Ten?"

"Slow and steady."

"All right. I'm good," Daryl says. "Bridge, how's the drift looking?"

"Negligible. You should still have at least ten meters of slack."

"All right." Laura says, doing something to the anchor before backing off to the side, her own line trailing loosely "You've got free rein. Head for the side bay, just behind the secondary engine. Left side, if you can manage it. And you don't want to get too close to that overhang, aim low and kick up again if you need to."

The overhang in question, from where the spine had been ripped open, is all gnarled metal, glinting sharp and deadly; maybe it looks better from Daryl's angle, because a moment later, kick arm braced in front of him, he heads straight for it. 

Fucking bastard. 

\--- 

Even at ten percent, he hits the side of the blown-out hangar door more forcefully than he'd meant to, but he catches hold easily enough and swings himself in. Taking a deep breath, he lets it out, and secures his footing, thumbing the control to set his anchor. 

Looking back, the RV's pointing down. He's on what would be the side of the opening, not the floor. He must've gotten turned around on a straight shot over. 

"Ten my _ass_ ," he says, looking instead at Laura, who, floating some thirty yards off, doesn't give him the same sense of vertigo. "I'm anchored."

"Nice work," Laura says, and then, after a moment, "Hang on. Can you switch channels to three? We have to run it through the relay."

He does so.

"Bridge, you got me?"

"Loud and clear," Dwight says. "You look like an idiot, by the way."

How the hell he can see is anyone's guess- the side engine's blocking the nose of the RV from sight completely. 

"We got interference or what?"

It's Mitch who responds this time. "Figured we would once you got in further, but hey, turns out that engine's probably not made out of bamboo and silly putty."

"Actually, Daryl, if you're secure, stay where you are, it'll help me triangulate and I don't want to crash into you. How's the floor looking over there?"

He looks to his left, then up. "Scraped up, but solid... up until it ain't. Figure you got ten feet above me before it's all busted up."

"All right. Stay where you are, I'm aiming for right above your head."

"This some William Tell bullshit or what?"

"What's that?"

"Never mind. C'mon."

Laura, of course, manages to drift over and land it perfectly, anchoring her feet before she's even stopped moving; how she does it without faceplanting is beyond him. 

"Could anchor over here," he tells her, crouching down to tug on the heavy pipe that's running along the floor, secured at several points to the wall.

She tests it herself, and nods, clipping onto it and gesturing for him to do the same. Standing up again, she turns on her headlamp and looks around, her beam focusing on an interior door ten yards up along the same wall.

Ten meters, and there's still more room behind it. It's funny to think that he hasn't stood in this much open space when there's literally _all of space_ at his back, but the thought's there anyway. The ship- even just what's left of it- is huge.

"All right, bridge, we're on board and anchored. We've got a clear line to the doorway."

"How're your compressors holding up?"

"97 and... 95 percent charge."

"Left boot anchors every step until you're enclosed, and stay on the line," Mitch says, "but you're good to go."

They're halfway to the door, engaging and disengaging their anchors with every step, when Mitch speaks again, sounding a little more stressed out. "Be advised, Paul's got eyes on some debitage coming loose from the bay. Guessing your landing shook it loos. Whatever it is, it's sinking out of sight. But be careful."

"Understood."

Laura reaches the doorway first, tugging at the handle; it's jammed- which they'd been expecting- so she grabs onto the wall, eases herself to the other side of it, and plants her anchor. 

"What d'you think?"

He gives it a closer look. It's not bowed or bent that he can tell, but the crank's not doing anything at all. "Could torch through it. Would take a minute."

She nods, turning to look away. "There's another door in the corner. Let's try that one first."

They resume their limping, plodding trek, another thirty paces. This time, the door's bowed inward, the latch completely disengaged. He needs to break out the pry bar to wedge it open enough to crawl through, but it only takes a few minutes. 

Once they're on the other side, he catches sight of light and looks up to see stars, a jagged edge of them, coming through the ripped open ceiling. 

"There should be floors there, right?"

"Not necessarily," Laura answers. "I mean, right above us, yeah, but I think that would be the atrium."

Right. The atrium. The ship he'd made the trek out to the Colony'd had one, at least up front. His quarters had been on the second level, with a doorway opening up to a walkway running the length of it. Merle's quarters had been towards the back, on the main deck, behind the security gates. The main floor had been where everyone'd been stuck all day long, loitering at tables, watching vid screens, going through training modules and drinking shitty coffee. 

It's the same kind of coffee he's been drinking lately, but he's had years to acclimate. 

"C'mon," Laura says, switching her boot anchors to artificial gravity mode and pointing down a dark hallway to their left. It looks like a tornado's been through it, or like it's still happening, but someone's paused the playback. "We head this way, it should take us up to the bridge."

He follows her, gradually getting used to the feeling of his boots landing a little too heavily against the metal floor. It feels like he's been hiking for an hour already.

They have to pick their way around an upended cart hovering in the middle of the corridor, and he drags a communicator, out of the way, letting it drift behind him. The papers are just an annoyance, like floating leaves. He's distracted enough that he nearly forgets to look where he's going.

His headlamp catches onto the sign painted on the wall. Five languages are pointing the way towards the infirmary. 

"How's your compressor looking?"

"84 percent," he says, startled by the sudden drop. She is too, to be turning around and looking at him like that. 

"We have to go back when we hit 60," she says. "And remember, we can always come back later."

"Should at least get a picture of what we're looking at first, though, right?"

"Agreed." 

"This is the bridge," Mitch says, a hint of warning in his tone. "Report in."

"We're down to 84 percent, here. Requesting permission to split up, cover more ground."

There's a delay.

"How's it looking, and where are each of you going?"

"I'm heading for the bridge. Daryl's heading for the infirmary. This far up, everything's been relatively clear. Creepy, but clear."

"You reconvene, right where you are now, at 70. And if anything looks hinky, pull back."

Laura looks like she wants to argue, but she shakes her head at Daryl. "Understood."

\--- 

He's got Laura's breath in his ears, but it's different, navigating this ship without her headlamp bobbing in front of him. 

And it's getting denser, now, too. The debris and clutter that's floating scattered in the hallway. At least if the ceiling here'd been ripped open, maybe some of it would've drifted off. 

It's only about two minutes before he finds his first dead body, face planted into a corner. Desiccated, like a dirty rag that's been left hanging on a nail to dry; he doesn't look any closer. 

Another few steps, though, and he can't not look. 

There are bodies _everywhere_ , bouncing slowly off each other, wedged under the bolted-down desk at the receptionist's station. A few of them- are curled up, arms around each other, huddled in balls. One of them bounces off of his shoulder as he pushes forward. 

Dried out and frozen, they're all so damn _small_.

"Got a body," Laura says, sounding grim. 

"Yeah, me too."

"… You mind just... talking? This is freaky as hell."

"Laura, Daryl, are you doing all right?"

"I'm good to see it through. Daryl?"

"Yeah. I'm in the waiting room, I think." He crouches down, shines his light towards the back, and then to the right. "Heading into the infirmary now."

"How're your levels?"

"80," Daryl says, coming to a stop and closing his eyes. He's not panicking, or anything, just aware. 

He'd known what he'd be walking into. And the dead are _dead_. Can't hurt anyone. This ain't the movies.

"Laura," he keeps his voice level, not particularly wanting to let on that hearing sounds of life seems a little more necessary than usual for him, too. "You finding anything worthwhile?"

"Made it up to the bridge," she says. "Had to take the anchors off for the climb, the stairs are a little packed. What about you?"

"Just getting through the door now, it's kind of jammed up.

It's maybe an oversimplification of the process he's going through. There are three bodies crammed together in the doorway, stiff as sticks and stacked together; one is wearing an officer's uniform and her head is wedged into a doctor's armpit. He doesn't want to know what'll happen if he rips one of them, though it feels like he might. 

Gradually, he manages to shift on one of the legs. On _someone's_ leg, and the mass of them come loose. Another tug, and the mass swivels enough that he can carry it through the doorway, pulling it down and out of the way. 

To his left, he knows without really knowing, are the patient beds. Up ahead is the infirmary itself; he moves forward; something nudges the back of his leg.

The mass of bodies is _writhing_ \- 

- _no_. Just settling, or refusing to. Not-quite bouncing off the floor. 

He sidesteps, quickly, and pretends it'll make this all better. 

"Daryl, are you okay?"

"M'fine," he says, a little too sharply, and he opens his eyes. "Just. I'm in."

It takes him a moment to sort out _wall_ from _cabinet_ , but it looks eerily familiar, much like the one where he'd had his nose reset after the fight he'd had to drag Merle out of on the flight up. 

_"You're fuckin' crazy,"_ Merle'd told him then. He'd probably be sayin' the same thing now, watching him rummage through the cabinets for antibiotics, vitamins, and not nearly as many painkillers as his brother would've grabbed.

It's not much, they've got more in the cargo bay, and he doesn't know for sure that the stock in the medbay cabinets had been damaged by the smoke, but he's here, and everything's fucked, and he might as well grab what he can. 

There's a package of cartoon-character bandages in one of the drawers. Doesn't recognize the characters, but they go into the carryall on his belt as well.

Taking another breath, it occurs to him that he can walk on the walls, here, which is going to be the best way around the upended chairs that've somehow managed to conglomerate there, but he's over it easily enough. 

Another few feet- it's much less cluttered, here, is an operating room, which, apart from a few tablets and a binder stuck to surfaces they shouldn't be sticking to, is at least clear. There's something to be said for having everything bolted down. 

"Bridge is a bad scene," Laura says, determinedly. "But I found the flight recorder. Also found the main backup drives for the system, I'm going to pull them, too."

"Sounds good. Daryl, you got anything?"

"They've got a bot," he says, finding it secured in place, set into the wall. "Gonna have to clear out a path on my way out, but it should be easy enough to get back to. Probably going to want to have a spare compressor before we try it. Uh. Nothing for stasis, though."

"That's because theirs are mobile, like life boats," Mitch tells him. "So they're down on D level, and probably long gone."

"I dunno about that."

"Daryl, what do you mean?"

"Just. There's, like... there's a lot of bodies up in here. Not sure how many people made it off the ship." 

It's not looking like anyone had much by way of warning. Whatever'd happened, it had happened quick.

Failing to suppress a shudder as he exits the infirmary, he goes right instead of left, down towards the elevator bank, where he'll presumably find the stairs. 

Rounding the corner, he's aware that there's something just overhead. 

A medic, if the badge tapping at his helmet is correct. If he doesn't look up any further, he doesn't have to confirm.

He doesn't want to be here. 

He doesn't particularly want to give in to all the shit he ain't thinkin' about, and he ain't sure standing at the meetup point with his thumb up his ass waiting for Laura's gonna make any of this shit any better. 

"Found the stairs," he says, injecting an exhausting amount of steel into his voice. "They look clear. I'm going down to check it out."

"How's your air holding out?"

He twists his arm to look at the readout, half hoping to find that it's already at near-critical levels, giving him an excuse, but there's none. 

"78." 

Maybe it's enough. Maybe he's just bein' a chickenshit. Either way, it seems to take Mitch a long time before he responds. 

"Okay, but you're starting to get down there, so be smart about it."

"Yeah."

Grabbing onto the railing, he releases his anchors and starts pulling himself down, since it's easier than fighting false gravity, and it's novel enough that it could, under different circumstances, be fun as hell. Once he gets moving, it's actually quick and easy; far more efficient than the boot anchors. Two floors down- the landing's painted with a large _D_ , he twists, working his legs over the bannister, and propels himself back to the floor. 

He imagines he lands with a thud, but if he does, it's muffled.

The hallway is wider, down here, and clear. It rings the entire ship, if he remembers right.

At least until he shines his headlamp down towards right, and sees the knot of people crammed together down by the next nearest access point, limbs sticking out stiffly. 

And there's an arm, up to the elbow, floating a few feet above his head. 

He takes a deep breath- he'll freak out _later_. Right now, it's the left wall he's interested in. 

He's remembering this, now. The tour he'd had to go on, his first day on the ship. The stasis pods, pre-programmed to triangulate the relays and nav beacons, were set to launch themselves towards Colony One or Earth, depending on which was closer, keeping the patient in stasis until the pod was unlocked in a presumably capable medical facility. 

And there are dozens of them, here. 

"Found the pods," he says. "Might be worth coming at them from the outside and hauling one in, ain't no getting them up the way we came."

"Noted and filed, now head back."

"Yeah."

\--- 

Back up the stairwell again, he pulls himself over the railing and through the door, going twenty feet past a heavy metal door and coming up to a desk before he realizes he's not where he thought he was. 

"The fuck?"

"Daryl?" Laura responds quickly. "Daryl, what's going on?"

"I'm fine. Just..." 

He turns; five paces in front of him is a sea of metal and shattered glass, floating in the middle of the room, all presumably coming from the cabinet that had fallen open in the middle of the wall.

None of them are moving, despite his imaginings to the contrary. 

"Just got off on the wrong floor," he says, edging backwards. "Got my bearings, though, I'm all right. You good?"

"Working on the last of the drives." The worry in her tone is replaced by irritated resignation. "I'm heading back to the meetup point in a minute so get your ass up here, all right?"

"Yeah." 

As he's turning back to the hall, his lamp cuts a swath along a grid of round metal discs; these ones, at least, are still held in place by a plastiglass cabinet door. 

Behind it, each of them is in its own little cubby, their ends of them stamped in long alphanumeric codes that tell him nothing, that should _mean_ nothing. 

Only he knows what they are, and opening the cabinet to pull one out- just a bit, and even that gingerly- is enough to confirm. He'd pulled one, identical to this, out of the wall after the medbay fire. And- he'd suspected, anyway, and now he's even _more_ certain- this container, it's probably what had started it. 

_Somehow_ , anyway. This one's empty, and the tag on the end doesn't tell him anything at all. 

Putting it back- again, _carefully_ \- he backs up, wary of disturbing the nonexistent air in a way that would result in hundreds of shards of glass shooting at him like arrows. 

There's a tablet on the desk, _Geo Team_ stenciled in black paint across the back above the asset tag.

There's a sign on the open door, he'd missed it when he'd come in. 

_Authorized Personnel Only_. 

\--- 

One floor up, and back through the infirmary, the absolute _hell_ of the waiting room, and the only slightly less awful hallway. He's not looking at anything, now, not giving anything the chance to spook him twice, he's just _moving_. And then finally, somehow _easily_ , he's there

Anyone else wants to come back here, they're welcome to it. For now, he's staring at a blank span of dusty gray wall, counting down to the moment they'd be leaving this fucking place. 

He's just starting to wonder where Laura is when Mitch is suddenly shouting in his ear. 

"Daryl, _report_." It would be overkill, if just a standard check. 

He catches himself shaking his head, as if the glitch was just a faulty helmet connection, and not just him zoning out. Looking down at his arm, he winces. The readout says 61. 

"72," he replies, reaching the corner, catching a flash of Laura's light coming from around the bend at the end of the next corridor. "Sorry, All good. Must've been some interference. Couldn't hear you."

"Cutting it kind of close for that kind of bullshit, don't you think? The crew would _kindly_ like to remind you, don't fucking _do that_."

He can't quite make out Laura's expression under the mask when she arrives, her carryall bulging, but she shrugs, clearly having heard everything.

" _Said_ I'm sorry," he grumbles back, as the urge to scratch his nose hits hard. "We're comin' back now."


	33. Chapter 33

_Wednesday, 08/11/2194, 15:42_

"You ever think that maybe your education didn't exactly cover all the things you needed to know?" Spencer smirks, getting into position on the tether controls.

Paul shakes his head. "Yeah, but where would we be now without third year economics?"

"Ugh, I'm so glad I'm not admin track," Carl says, vehemently, then, more loudly so the comms system can pick it up, "we're good to go."

"Hold up," Dwight says. " _Fuck!_ "

Paul can't see anything through the airlock, and abandoning his post to go look doesn't seem like a good idea. Carl's already running into the cargo bay, presumably to climb up on the crates to peer out the window again. "What is it?"

"Got a problem," Mitch mutters, just as Mitch grinds out, " _Daryl, Laura, report._ "

"Yeah, we're feelin' it," Laura says. "Floor's creaking. Let's get moving. We're almost back to the anchor."

"What the hell?" Carl calls out. "The back end's splintering!"

"And we're starting to twist, I can feel it. Daryl, we need to go, _now_ , c'mon!"

"The fuck happened?"

"Don't know what's _happening_ , boss."

"Alright, alright. Don't panic. You guys clipped in yet?"

"Almost... yeah. Daryl, check- yeah. Bridge, we're okay, let's do this."

"Okay. Tethers, you ready?"

"Ready," Paul says, nodding at Spencer, who's looking as sick as he's feeling.

Spencer swallows thickly. "Ready." 

"All right. Daryl, Laura, as soon as you're at the range extender, stay close and be ready to steer as they take over to reel you in the rest of the way."

"Count of three?" Daryl asks.

"Three... two...one." A moment passes, and she continues. "Okay, good, don't fight it, let the extender do the work. Too close... okay that's good."

A longer moment passes, and another one, and then, finally, Daryl. "Almost there. Okay. We got it."

"Tethers in at ten percent. They're clear, but stay sharp. Let's not make it an emergency."

"Little too late for that," he hears Carl mutter.

He catches Spencer's murderous glare, too, but at the moment, he's not sure he doesn't agree. Figures, this would be how the two of them start seeing eye to eye on anything. And funny, too, that awkwardness of the past few days aside, it's almost nice to just be able to give a damn without worrying about being seen. 

"How's it coming out there?" Mitch asks.

"Kind of over it, to be honest," Laura says. "...okay, you can cut stop them, we'll take it from here."

The heavy thud of their landing in the airlock is the most heartening noise he's heard in days. 

Daryl's " _aw, fuck_ " is the worst. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 08/11/2194, 15:50_

He'd already been off-balance. He shouldn't have twisted to look back, he threw them _both_ off.

"You okay?" Laura's mask is pressed against his, mostly because now that their tethers are tangled- mostly around his leg, she doesn't have any choice. But they made it to the airlock, and she's looking annoyed, but she's still breathing.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's all right, she says, moving to extricate herself. Between the gear and the gloves and the harnesses, it's more hassle than it should be. As soon as they can, they haul the last of their tethers in. "Everyone, graceful we ain't, but we're good for repressurization."

The hiss is louder than he remembers it being, but quicker, and eventually the light on the wall turns green, and the inner door opens. 

Paul and Spencer are standing at the tether controls, arms crossed, looking furious. 

"Just so you know..." Paul starts.

"...you guys are assholes."

\--- 

 

The twenty minutes it takes to get changed out of the sealsuit and acclimated to the sensation of weight in his limbs seems three times that, now. At least Paul's irritation with him seems to have waned, a bit, though it's probably got more to do with how pathetic he looks standing here his sweat-soaked thermals, than anything else. 

He should probably have something to say about it. And he's got a lot he needs to tell him- tell _everyone_. But right now, he just needs to get to a goddamned _window_.

Going upstairs seems like too much work, so he ain't really sure why he's following Paul into the hold and climbing one of the stacks of lockdown crates. Everyone else is up top, preparing to move the RV in the event that bad's about to become worse. 

But now that they're up here and looking out, it's not actually as terrifying as it had seemed when he'd caught sight of it through his mask. 

They'd known the whole ship had been twisting, slowly, and that the signs that it's been coming apart had been clear from the start. 

"What happened in there?" Paul asks, fingers white on the edge of the crate as they watch a large tattered hull panel- some five by thirty yards- slowly shear itself off the shredded cargo end of the Ambition. 

"Dunno. We went forward, were on the other end of it."

"That was stupid."

"What, we were supposed to go to the _back_?"

"No, I mean. This whole thing. We should've been more careful."

At that, as if to punctuate his statement, the metal finally breaks free. It's silent, and, more importantly, flying slowly off, back and away from them. 

"We were," Daryl says. "And we're okay. We'll keep an eye on it before we go back. _If_ we go back."

He sounds overconfident and he knows it. 

But, now that he's got floor under his feet and the chill of recycled air prickling at his skin, and now that he's _well away_ from the Ambition, it's starting to seem small, like something manageable. Sure, it's full of floating shrapnel and dead bodies, and pieces of metal larger than this room are being flung off of it. And yeah, maybe it had been something he'd bumped into, that had shifted against something else, that had hit a wall with just enough force to send a vibration through the entire ship, to eventually work its way back to where the shredded metal had been hanging on by a thread. 

Maybe he just needs to learn to shut his mouth until the tang of adrenaline's washed out of his mouth. 

"Okay, we're clear for now," Mitch says over the comms. "Turning the spotlights and proximity shields on, though. We're keeping an eye on it. I want everyone up on the bridge to debrief in ten."

"Gonna go see about a shower," Daryl says, knowing that he's leaving this wrong, but not really knowing what to do with the irritated crease carved into Paul's forehead. Pressing a quick kiss into it doesn't do as much good as he'd hoped. 

"See you back up there," he says. 

"Yeah."

\---

_Wednesday, 08/11/2194, 16:02_

"I'm not saying it was anything anyone did," Paul says, pouring himself a measure and passing the bottle on to Daryl. "I'm just saying that it's not stable, it hasn't _been_ stable, and it's probably not going to _become_ stable any time in the next twenty-four hours."

"Agreed," Mitch says, toying with his own cup. "And as much as I hate to be the one saying it, while it would be nice to get the surgical bot working again, and maybe even work out a way to drag over one of the stasis pods, it's not worth the risk."

Looking between Laura and Daryl, Sasha nods her agreement. "We know how it looks out here. How was it in there?"

"Not great," Daryl sounds resigned, now that he's had some time to clear his head. "I'm cool with not going back there. The place is a fuckin' mess. No sense tempting fate, right?"

"We got the flight recorder, and the drives. And I scored some actual chocolate out of a drawer in the office, which... yeah, we'll break that out tonight after dinner." Laura shrugs, grinning. "And Daryl got some medical supplies, so we came out ahead."

"We need to take a look at the drives, sooner'n later, too." Daryl tosses back his whiskey in one go, squinting as it hits his throat. "Think I might've found something. About the fire."

Everyone sits up a little bit at that, though he can't help noticing Carl snagging the bottle and pouring a little of it into his own cup. 

"What's that?" Sasha asks. 

"Too soon to tell, and it don't make no sense. But you know that metal and glass thing we pulled out of the wall? The ship was full of them."

Nobody really knows what to make of that, but Laura's the first to nod; Mitch follows suit. 

"You, Dwight and Paul mind looking into that? I gotta say, it's been bugging me like a sore tooth."

"Yeah." It's Dwight's turn to nod as he looks at the clock. "So. This mean we're headin' on our way, then?"

Mitch and Sasha exchange a look. 

"Yeah," she says, sipping her drink. "Guess it does."


	34. Chapter 34

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 06:22_

"All crew," Mitch is on the comms, far too happily for this hour of morning. "Report to the commons immediately. There's been a change of plans."

Spencer, standing up from the plants he's feeding, turns to look at Paul. "What's going on?"

"Dunno." He towels his face off as his feet coast on the bike's pedals, and ruefully puts the notion of a shower and a fresh change of clothes out of his head. 

Shrugging back into his coveralls, he follows Spencer upstairs, where Dwight and Daryl, coffees in hand, are staring intently enough through the upper corridor window that whatever they're seeing is probably on an impact trajectory. 

"Thought we were moving out," he says, by way of greeting. "What's going on?" 

"The Ambition's still shedding," Dwight says, stepping aside so he and Spencer can see. "Looks one of the holds gave out like a pinata Look."

Paul's not sure what he's looking for; at first, he's just content to see that none of it- the crates and the machine parts and the twisted chunks of metal- are bearing down on them, at least not immediately. 

Before he can ask for clarification, though, Daryl's leaning over him to point down and to the right.

"That. Down there. The blue."

He sees _something_ there- a small object that _might_ be blue- drifting towards the bottom of the lane, just barely caught in the RV's spotlights amongst all the debris and thrown-off machinery. 

He _also_ sees, between here and there, another half dozen bodies. 

"Yeah? What is it?"

Daryl's chewing on his hangnail again- it's not as if he hasn't noticed them- but Paul doesn't mention it.

"Jump drive stabilizer. Still unwrapped and intact, from the looks of it."

"Mitch stayed the order," Dwight fills in. "Gonna see about retrieving it."

"How?" Spencer asks. "Isn't that... kind of far?" 

"Too far for the tethers, which is why I'm going, and not someone else." Mitch says, descending the ladder, just as Sasha and Carl step out of their rooms, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes to blink at them all in confusion. 

"You're doing _what_ now?"

\--- 

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 06:53_

"Okay, Dwight, set the lock on the extender... yeah. All right, bridge? We're locked, and are tandeming out until the drop off point."

It's unnerving, listening to them heading out into the debris and the dead, no one having eyes on either of them. 

Anyone living, anyway. 

"I still don't see what the point is," Paul grumbles, low enough that his voice won't be carried up to where Sasha's still probably glaring out the window, despite the fact that Dwight and Mitch had dropped out of sight almost immediately. He'd been there when Sasha'd ordered Dwight out there to spot Mitch from the end of the extended tether line; he'd already sat through the debate about either of them going out at all. But he can't help asking anyway. "Something goes wrong, what's he gonna do?"

"They know what they're doing," Daryl says, with only a hint of forced confidence. "If they manage to snag the stabilizer, we could be landing a month ahead of schedule." He turns his comms off, nodding at him to do the same. 

"What is it?" 

Daryl's finally going to be the one who mentions it. The dead, floating out there, the hell of it all. 

There's nothing to do about them. They're moving on soon, they're all too far out and too far gone. But on board the resupply ship, Daryl'd seen them up close. 

"You get a look at the Ambition's drives yet?"

It takes a few seconds for him to actually lock onto the question. "Planned on it for this morning. But no. Why?"

"Just," Daryl frowns, shaking his head. "Got 'em set on the computer last night. Need t'ask you something, 'cause they ain't makin' any goddamned-"

"How's it looking out there?" Laura's voice interrupts him, cutting across on the shipwide, clear and confident. 

"All good," Mitch replies, and Paul's opening his mouth to ask Daryl to clarify when Dwight cuts in. 

"Hey, uh, Mitch?"

"Just a few more meters," Mitch is saying, and then, " _Yeah_ , Dwight, I see it."

Laura's voice has gained a sharper edge, now. " _What_ are you seeing?"

"Stasis pod. Underneath the ship."

"Is it moving?"

"No faster than anything else out here. Dead in the water."

"The hell?" With a questioning glance at Paul, Daryl switches his mic on, addressing everyone. "Ain't they supposed to be on autopilot?"

"If they're engaged, yeah." Paul shrugs, anticipation finally catching hold in his chest. 

If it had just been thrown off empty, shed like the rest of the debris, it might be functional. And if they can get it on board through the equipment lock, then _maybe_ -

"All right, I've got the stabilizer," Mitch says. "Looks intact. Coming back to the extender now. Dwight, I'm going to hand this over to you first, then go back for a closer look, all right?"

"All right both of you, how're your levels?" Laura replies

"92."

"94," Mitch says. "Okay, handoff made, Dwight's got it, I'm going back out."

Another few minutes go by, and Paul just stands around waiting for orders, or maybe for permission to hope.

"Okay, he's underneath the RV now, but I've got eyes on him," Dwight updates them. "Seeing a little... debris at his 2:00 but it seems to be moving off... yeah, he's clear, it's fine."

"How's your neck of the woods?"

"Nothing heavy, nothing sharp," he eventually answers, though he sounds anxious. "Got some stuff, but it's moving away ahead of us. Lines are clear... Mitch, how're your bearings?"

"No issues here."

"...and he's closing in," Dwight says, eventually, for their benefit. "Looks like he's-" 

"It's intact," Mitch interrupts with a laugh. "If it's just offline, it might be worth... oh."

The drop in humor is echoed by Laura's response. "Mitch, talk to us. What're you seeing?"

"Nothing worth sticking around for, and a pretty good reason to leave." 

There's a long pause; glancing over at Daryl, it's plain to see that he's not the only one whose brain is easily filling the gap with bad news. 

"Dwight," Mitch finally says, "Go ahead and get back inside. I'll follow in a minute." 

Under the circumstances, with him swimming through a debris field, a hundred meters past the end of the end of Dwight's tether- they should've sent Laura out with him, for an op like this- the calmness in his voice isn't completely heartening. 

"The fuck's going on, Mitch?"

"Everything's fine. Sorry, just needed to think for a second," he replies, reassuringly, after a moment. "Nothing to worry about, but once Dwight's through, I want the airlock prepped for a decontamination entry."


	35. Chapter 35

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 09:30_

The CO2 scrubber's in the medbay, running already. The quarantine tunnel's locked in place, spanning the distance between the airlock and the medbay. The tunnel's plastic is thin, slightly milky, and spiderwebbed with sensor wires. But the leak indicator strip is over on Dwight's side. 

"How're the seals?" Daryl asks Dwight. Helmet off, but in his sealsuit, he's sweating something awful. 

"We're good to go," he says. "Bridge, the tunnel's in place."

"Cutting life support to the medbay now," Sasha confirms. "Go ahead and get him in, I'm on my way down."

The control panel's on this side of the tunnel, so Daryl starts the pressurization cycle, and, once it's done, opens the airlock, the tunnel fogs instantly.

Mitch, still in his suit and mask, trudges halfway across to before stopping to look out the other side at Sasha. "How's it looking from out there?"

Already, some of the moisture is beading up. As the steam clears, Daryl can make out her scowl as she examines the sensor strips clipped to her side of the tunnel. Behind her, Carl's standing by the ladder, arms crossed. 

She glances up at Mitch, and nods, every line of her relaxing. 

"Nothing there that shouldn't be. How're you feeling?"

"Temperature is fine, no headache, confusion, dizziness, nausea or any of that going on." He holds up his arm to the plastic to show her his readouts. "Suit's intact."

"Good. Gotta confirm anyway. Did you have any direct contact?"

"The pod's deadlock seal was intact."

"All right," Sasha nods, then looks quizzically at him. "...okay, shit. I forgot. What's next?"

"Burnbag the suit, exit into the infirmary, sealing the tunnel and then the door behind me."

"We have to run another decon cycle with the airlock door still open, right?"

"Yes. Then you can disconnect the whole thing, and I'll start the timer for my quarantine."

"You sure you really need it?"

"I'm sure I don't," Mitch says, confidently enough. "Believe me, I'd be happy to be anywhere other than the remains of our infirmary for the next twenty-four hours, but under the circumstances, my opinion doesn't get to count for shit. But yeah, I want everyone focusing on the stabilizer upgrade and preparing to get our protocol-following asses out of here " Straightening suddenly, he turns to give Daryl a horrified glance. " _Please_ tell me the room's actually prepped for quarantine."

"Sensors are online and the system's isolated," Daryl smirks, which earns him an elbow to the ribs, courtesy of Paul.

"CO2 scrubber's already doing its thing. Clothes, rations, tablet, and that book off your desk. Bedding, too, such as it is," Paul says. "It's all there."

"Cool. Thanks," Mitch says, glancing over his shoulder. "All right, Sasha, Laura? I'll log the report, but you're in charge." 

"Aye aye, captain," she turns, with a glance in Dwight's direction as she leaves. "You guys got this from here?"

"Yeah."

"Guess that's my cue to get naked," Mitch sighs, undoing the latch to his helmet. "Avert thine eyes, everybody. Or don't, I don't care. Just don't make it weird."

\--- 

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 11:45_

Paul's pretty sure Daryl doesn't actually _need_ any help going over Dwight's wiring plan for the stabilizer, but he'd asked, so he's here. 

Daryl works his way around the device, testing every connection sight, contact by contact. The sooner he's finished, the sooner they can get it installed and be on their way. Hopefully much more quickly than before.

"What's the resistance for port 24 again?"

"10 microfarads."

Daryl glances up at him. "You sure?"

"Here," Paul says, a little surprised that he's actually been listening, given how intently he's been working. He passes him the tablet to see for himself.

"Huh."

"Not what you expected? 22 was-"

"Notification just popped up. Mitch uploaded his report." Daryl shakes his head, reading for a few long minutes. At first, the frown on his face is merely perplexed, though it gives way, gradually, to concern, and then irritation. 

"So what's it look like?"

"Same old unsettling shit," Daryl says, handing him the tablet to read, and turning back, somewhat distractedly now, to his multimeter.

_...upon closer inspection, the pod proved to be deadlocked for reasons of an unknown medical biohazard, according to the label. The seals were intact and it bore an asset tag reading SSRCB5, though the scrub date was illegible. It is my estimation that any further quarantining procedures had already been undertaken on board the Ambition. I contacted the bridge for a decontamination entry, and protocols were followed. Sensors came out clear, indicating that there was no unmitigated contact with the biohazard risk in question._

It's unnerving, yes, but no more than he'd really been expecting. 

Paul glances towards the medbay, wondering absently if it's worth getting on comms to ask Mitch for more information, or if they should call a break and hunt down something resembling lunch instead. With the morning's excitement, he's not sure any of them had really had the time for breakfast. 

"Earlier," he says. "You were asking about the drives..."

"Yeah." Daryl sets the meter down, then twists to lean against the workbench, and it's possible that he's been waiting for Paul to ask this whole time. "Shit. I dunno. Didn't really know what I was lookin' at, for the most part. Like with the whole flight recorder thing. But I was pokin' around, found the manifests."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Figured, I've helped unload a few resupplies, at least that would be some kind of _in_ , y'know? Make some sort of sense. Only I couldn't find the usual shit." He shoots him a measuring look; Paul doesn't know what to do with it. 

"Like what?"

"No medicine, metal or menstrual pads. There were new parts, and the usual metals resupply. But like, no real food-"

"There wasn't any _food?_ "

"Just the basics, like ricemeal and protein powders. None of the requisitionable stuff- fish, veg, cheese, alcohol, real coffee..."

"The hell?" 

It doesn't make sense, especially given what had actually been ordered in the first place. The costs of transporting anything via the jump lane being what they were, the bare necessities were always given priority. 

As such, plans had been in the works for three years to prepare for the Half-Centennial festivities. Everyone had been required to turn in their personal requisition requests a full eighteen months in advance. Stowage budgeting had been the top story in the feeds for months; Gregory'd gone ten rounds with Councilwoman Yang over her ordering a dozen crates of toys and games for the kids; Councilwoman Hodges had eventually pushed back her computer order 6 months to make up for it. 

To say that the Ambition's resupply was the most heavily anticipated shipment in a generation would not have been an understatement. 

"What about all the Half-Centennial supplies?"

Daryl shrugs, shaking his head. "Didn't see anything like that. But, I figured, the inventories could've been somewhere weird- it ain't like I ever really did anything more'n hauling crates from point A to point B- so I started goin' through the departmental orders, see if the orders were organized that way, or something. Largest one was for the geologists. They had rovers, filtration units. Enough heavy equipment- drills an' shit- to refit their whole operation three or four times over."

Oh. 

_Priorities._

"They _do_ have that capping project coming up." He hadn't heard anything about it, but if the Council had changed the order, they probably hadn't wanted to announce it without managing the message for months ahead of time first. Maybe they would've gotten to it, if _Negan_ hadn't happened. 

"Yeah." Daryl nods tightly, like he's already thought it through to the worst conclusion possible. "But it's been bugging me. If they're _capping_ it, I dunno why they're lookin' to _extract_ so much of it."

"Could be, they need to test the rubidium so they know what they're up against."

Pulling a skeptical face, Daryl turns to rummage down into one of the crates next to the workbench. "Yeah. _Could_ be. But then there's this." Standing up again, he passes him the broken canister from the infirmary wall. 

The CS2148:32-26N15W-K5C2 stamped across the metal makes no more sense than it had the last time Paul had looked at it. Daryl's reached some sort of conclusion, though, because he's standing there, arms crossed and jaw clenched like he's about to pick a fight. 

"There were _hundreds_ of them, stored in neat little rows." 

"That's..." Not sure if he's about to say _okay_ or _fucked up_ , Paul sets it down on the workbench, giving in to the urge to wipe his hands off on his coveralls. He musters up a grin, just in case it'll do anything against Daryl's agitation. 

It doesn't _not_ work, but now Daryl just looks worn out. " _One_ of those broke, and it could've killed you."

"At least they're storing them more carefully than we were." 

"Sure," he scoffs. "The _empty_ ones, at least."

\--- 

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 14:33_

It's Paul's idea to wait until the stabilizer's installed to bring it up with Sasha.

Daryl hadn't thought much about why, until he notices him slipping into the cargo bay just as she and Dwight are heading up to the bridge. 

"Sasha, job queue thing. You got a minute?"

Dwight goes on ahead, and Paul leads her back into the cargo bay, and and they tell her everything they know. 

\---

"I don't like it," she says, dropping the broken canister back down into the box once they're through bringing here up to speed. "Hundreds of these on board. You're sure that's what you saw?"

"More securely stored," Daryl assures her, for what it's worth and for all he knows. They could've had a full one somewhere. Opened or handled wrong, maybe it could've destroyed the whole ship. "And empty. But yeah."

She looks at Paul. "Back home. You ever hear anything as to why the resupply shipment was replaced by containers and mining equipment? Or- you were engineering, right? Anything about gathering explosive samples, anything like that?"

Her tone's hard and serious, but falls short of accusatory, though it doesn't look like Paul's hearing it that way. 

"It's a big department. Didn't have a lot of overlap with the geologists. And as far as Council meetings or Admin gossip, I never even heard about anything _like_ this." He sighs, glancing between the two of them, like he's waiting for either of them to say more. 

Daryl nods, and then Sasha does, addressing both of them. "Have you gotten a look at the flight data?"

"Just the manifests, but-"

The shipwide comes on, and Laura's calling for Sasha.

"Installation's complete, and we're ready for the override code, whenever you get the chance."

Sasha glances towards the infirmary, or maybe the stairwell. "Okay, Daryl, we're ready for testing, yeah?" Then, more apologetically, and more quietly, she adds, "Paul, I'm making the flight recorder your main priority. If anyone asks, you're just satisfying your curiosity, at least until I've had a chance to fill Mitch in."

"Will do." He waits for her to leave, and then, once she's cleared the steps leans against Daryl's side. "Killing time, sorting through data, and not talking to anyone about it. Don't think I've been this much an Admin in months."

He leans back against him, keeping it brief. 

"Be careful." 

He's not really sure _why_ he says it.

It's just that, whatever Paul finds, it's probably going to be nothing good.


	36. Chapter 36

_Thursday, 08/12/2194, 15:27_

"Okay, bridge," Daryl's voice cuts through the music Spencer and Sasha have playing over the shipwide. "Readouts are good, access panel is back in place. Me an' Dwight just need a few minutes to clean up here and we'll be good to go."

"You can bring it online for the diagnostics sweep," Dwight adds. "I've got monitoring routed to my tablet."

"Will do," Sasha replies from the bridge; off comms, he hears her continue, "Spencer, you got this? I'm going to grab some coffee."

It's as good a time as any to sit up and stretch. He's been bent over for the past few hours, switching from the non-networked drive computer and his tablet. Between the shipping and personnel manifests, the flight recorder, and the system logs, his head's spinning. His eyes are dry and his neck is sore and his brain doesn't really know where to start. 

But something starting to emerge. More questions, if not more answers. It's got to be something, at least.

"You find anything?"

"Maybe?"

"Hang on, let me..." she trails off, heading into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two mugs, one of which she passes over, before sitting down and pulling her hair out of her ponytail and scratching at her head. 

"Thanks."

"So..." Scooting closer so that she can see the screen, she lowers her voice. "What's this maybe? Talk me through it."

"Okay. Well. You already know about what Daryl found in the shipping manifest. Not much to add there other than to confirm that it doesn't really look like they were bringing the usual stuff. Thought it could be because of the rubidium capping project- which would actually be a valid, if incredibly disappointing, reason come resupply day."

"...but?"

"More like _and_. As in, _and_ they don't usually come bearing arms. Or, you know. Entire squadrons. I found the passenger manifest. None of the names mean anything to me, so I'm going to try running it by Mitch, see if he knows anyone. But everyone's job class was listed, and according to that, there were three dozen NATOPS soldiers on board."

"Shit. Like what, an invasion?"

"I don't know. The logs are encrypted above the pay grade of this machine, which apparently hasn't been updated in five years."

Sasha closes her eyes, then shakes her head. "Okay, that's a fucked up thing to leave aside, but I don't know what else to do with it. Anything else?" She frowns; if she's considering adding _like the biohazard in the pod outside_ , she doesn't have to.

"Yeah. Maybe." Sipping his coffee, he switches over to the flight recorder, opening the drive; it takes ages to load. Thousands of lines of data start to fill in, sluggishly, on the screen; he has to check the notes he's made on his tablets to get his bearings. 

"This literally reports every major system on board the Ambition, right? Engines and life support, primarily. But it also tracks electricals, and every keyed entrance and exit."

"Okay," she allows, though she's looking at gibberish.

"Don't worry, there's a key file in here to decode what everything means. Anyway, all this red at the top, that's the systems failing or shutting down. Here's the explosion." He points at the screen. "And a while before that, there are several systems interruptions. They had some kind of offline event. These are sporadic throughout the 72 hours leading up to the explosion." He scrolls down the page, pointing a few of them out.

"All right..."

Scrolling back up again, almost to the top, he highlights one line. "This one here, just before the explosion. A matter of seconds. On the tail end of an outage- or whatever that offline thing means, power was rerouted from the jump drive back into the capacitors, which caused a systems overload. Twenty minutes or so before that, we have the firewall being overridden and the failsafes deactivated."

Sasha looks at him for a long moment. 

"Are you saying it was deliberate?"

"Maybe that it _could've_ been? For all I know, it was an issue and they were trying to work on it. If you click on this," he does so, opening a link to another thousand lines of even more incomprehensible data. "You can see everything."

"For all the good that does me," Sasha sighs, fidgeting with the handle of her coffee cup. 

"I know. One thing that was interesting, though." He has to refer to his notes again to find it, and decides instead just to read from there. "I looked it up in the key because of the timing, but 12 hours before the explosion, it shows a keyed entry into SB7. It's the brig. They were locking someone up."

"How can you tell it's related? A lot of people on that ship, stuff's bound to happen."

"I can't tell, honestly. I just said that the timing was interesting. Not going to know anything without the logs, really." 

Sasha nods, leaning forward, eyes on the screen, then dropping to his notes. "What's all that? SSRCB5, looks like it keeps showing up."

"Secure Storage, Rear Cargo Bay 5. It's reported as being offline throughout the whole trip. No electrical, no life support, no gravity. According to the manifest, it's mostly full of heavy mining equipment."

"Which they're not going to use in the jump lane, presumably."

"Right. Saves on power, not having to keep it hospitable. That's where they were keeping all the mining equipment. But there's one thing. It's also, according to Mitch's report, the asset tag for the pod."

"So... they were keeping the pod in secure storage with no life support?"

"Yeah."

Sasha thinks about it for a minute. "Actually. It kind of makes sense." 

"How?"

"Well. If the pod's containing someone who's got a virus or is ridden with some horrible bacteria, you don't want that getting into the life support system, right."

"True, but wouldn't the infirmary have the means of doing the same thing in a more controlled fashion?"

"For all I know, they just plug it into one of the pod chutes and hang a "Do not disturb" sign on the door." Sasha shakes her head, shrugging, and leans back in her chair. "I mean, think about it. I'm just spinning, here, but prying eyes and hands, accidental jostlings, those're the kind of things that would make people nervous, right?"

"Yeah..."

"So you stow it as far away from everyone as possible, in a secure room with no atmosphere as an added precaution. And it works, at least up until an explosion rips the ship apart."

"It makes sense," Paul agrees, eventually. Mostly, because when it comes down to it, he's a little disappointed. The _something_ he'd thought he'd been onto's turned out to be a reasonably explained _nothing_ , and he'd wasted hours chasing it down. 

"Hold up," Sasha says, interrupting his pity party, shaking her head vehemently as she grabs his tablet. "No no no, that's not right..."

"What isn't?"

She holds up one finger; the other, she's using to navigate the tablet, scowling. "Fuck. I'm not finding it, we're gonna need to ask Mitch."

"Ask him what?"

"NATOPS guidelines. He showed them to me when we were trying to figure out what to do with Connor."

"Okay..."

"Any risk of contagion, the body wouldn't be stowed, it would be jettisoned immediately to prevent an outbreak." Sitting back in her chair, she picks up her coffee again, and fixes him with a grim look. "If I'm remembering right, that body shouldn't have been on board at all."

\---

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 03:05_

The stars have never been visible for more than a moment before streaking out of existence, with as fast as the engine upgrades are allowing them to go, they're there and gone in an instant. The dust clouds tend to hang in the field of vision slightly longer. For a while, there, off on the left, there'd been several of them, right after the other, purple and orange and gray, clashing with all the violence of a summer storm. He'd set the autopilot and dimmed the dashboard controls, for a while there, just to watch. 

Maybe he's just trying to override the sight of gnarled frozen bodies he hasn't quite managed to shake yet. Floating scattered where they shouldn't be, ignored in favor of their debris, and left behind without a word.

"Wow," Paul says, handing him a cup of coffee as he takes the copilot's seat, looking out at the stars blinking into and out of view, the blue-purple haze of _something_ there and gone again. "That's... impressive."

"Should've been here ten minutes ago," Daryl says, bringing the dashboard lights up to normal brightness. When he leans over, he smells whiskey. "There were a bunch of them."

"Cool. How're the upgrades treating us?"

"So far so good." He looks down at Paul's mug, fairly certain it has something to do with Paul's near silence at dinner and the way he'd sequestered himself in his room with the computer after book club. "How's the research going?"

Paul laughs, toasting him with his whiskey before sitting back to chew on his lip for a moment. Eventually, he sighs. "More questions than answers." Taking a sip, he twists in his seat, leaning his shoulder against the back, and looks at him curiously. "Question for you."

"Shoot."

"What do you know about rubidium?"

"Only that it burns when it comes in contact with oxygen. It's why they're doing the whole capping project. Keep any dust particles from blowing in and fucking with the filtration system, and whatever was in that container was enough to start the fire in the medbay."

"But do you think it would be enough to blow the Ambition out of the sky?"

"Far as I could tell, the shit that was in the wall didn't explode, just burned." Daryl shrugs. "I dunno, maybe it did... and if there was enough of it somewhere, it might've gone off more dramatically."

Paul nods. "How much do you think that would take?"

"No idea. You?"

"I don't know, but that's the thing. There's none listed on the manifests, unless it's recorded somewhere in the logs. But it doesn't make sense for the Ambition to be carrying any in the first place, right? I mean, en route to the Colony."

"Their canisters were empty, far's I could tell. My guess is more like... if they had mining equipment, maybe they had actual explosives on hand. Easier to work with, at any rate, if someone knew how to work the detonator, or whatever."

"Well, between the miners and the three dozen NATOPS soldiers, someone could've figured it out."

"Soldiers?"

"Yeah. It was on the passenger manifest, did you see?"

"No." Daryl rubs a hand over his face; all he can focus on at the moment is that he really needs to grab a shower and a shave; his skin feels greasy. It takes him a second to get back on track. "Shit. You think someone went nuts and decided to take the whole ship with them?"

"It's kind of starting to look that way."

"You tell Sasha yet?"

Paul shakes his head. "A little bit, yeah, but mostly she's worried about the stasis pod and Mitch right now. Figure we'll all sit down tomorrow and hash it out."

"Still playing this close to the chest?"

"At least until we talk to Mitch, yeah." Paul shrugs, then takes another sip of his whiskey. 

Daryl can't help the smirk. "Spoken like a true Admin."

"Hey, Sasha's orders, not mine. I mean, I agree with her. There's no sense in _everyone_ getting all wound up over problems that we can't do anything about before we know what's what."

"Right, 'cause with this many people on board, I'm _sure_ nobody'll figure out that something weird's goin' on."

"No, I mean. It's more about the fact that it looks like the Ambition, instead of bringing _supplies_ for everyone, was bringing _soldiers_ and the tools to mine a substance that could put the whole _colony_ at risk, and there's nothing we can _do_ about it."

"There ain't nothing _to_ do about it." Daryl points out, irritated. "We're past it, yeah? I mean, better or worse, the Ambition didn't make it, and we're still flying. Ain't great news, yeah, but seems kind of pointless, tryin' to hide it." 

"I'm not saying we don't tell the crew." Over the top of his mug, Paul fixes him with a pointed look. "I _am_ guessing that with as morale-killing as this is all shaping up to be, it's going to be something that Sasha and Mitch are going to need to handle kind of carefully if we don't want to wind up with everyone _freaking out_." 

It's been a while, since he's felt this particular kind of stupid. "Shit."

Paul shrugs. Nods and sips his drink.

And then it's just quiet, but not the usual kind. Like there's something more that one of them are supposed to say and he ain't sure what. But the longer it draws out, the worse it feels. There's another couple of dust clouds out towards the right, coming up. Nothing as colorful as the ones before, but enough to look at, until they pass too quickly from view. 

Once they're gone again, Daryl sighs. Looks back over at him. 

"We good?"

He manages not to cringe, just barely. 

"Huh?" Paul glances over and does a double take, a little surprised. "Yeah, why?"

"Just checking."

Paul grins, but it's replaced in short order by a concerned frown. "Shit. _Are_ we good?"

"Yeah? I mean, just... you seemed pissed. Think I did too."

"Yeah, well. It happens." Paul's head droops to the side. "Look, for what it's worth, Mitch is getting out of quarantine in a few hours. We'll talk to him, sort it out, and we'll all put our heads together to figure out how we want to play it once we land."

"Sorry," Daryl says. "About the Admin thing." 

"Me too," Paul laughs, then fixes him with a serious look. "But seriously, we're good, unless you say otherwise."

"Nah, we're good."

The coffee's cool enough to drink, now, so he helps himself to it and glances down at the readings. There's an ice field coming up, well outside of the lane, in another half an hour or so. Other than that, it's smooth sailing. 

"Hey, you should throw it on autopilot for a minute."

He locks it in, then looks over to ask why, but Paul's already getting out of his seat and looming over him, and he knows where this is going. 

Paul tastes like whiskey, and he really needs to start pulling his hair back or something, but it's good, and somehow, Daryl manages not to spill the coffee he's still holding all over himself. 

"Hey," he says, pulling back enough just to speak, but not really enough to see him all that clearly. "You're off tomorrow night, right?"

Paul grins. "Want to come over to my place, get distracted in front of a movie or something?"

_Or something_. 

"Yeah."


	37. Chapter 37

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 14:09_

Mitch, once his quarantine had been up, had spent the whole afternoon getting caught up, taking over the computer and throwing outdated NATOPS decryption keys at the Ambition's logs, until finally one had stuck around lunchtime. Almost immediately after that, he and Sasha had sequestered themselves in his quarters, huddled in a two-hour closed-door meeting. 

Paul's been playing cards with Carl; if he's having any better luck eavesdropping on the conversation from where he's sitting across the table, he's not letting on. Spencer, too, seems to be dawdling in the kitchen. 

When Mitch finally emerges, eyes hard and jaw set as he stalks into the commons, he looks so furious that Paul finds himself wondering if he's onto all of them.

"Spencer, we need a fresh bottle of whiskey."

Spencer hesitates; honestly, Paul can't blame him. "We're not due to dive into that ration until next week."

"Even if we weren't going to be vastly ahead of schedule, I'd be overriding it," Mitch points out, his tone _just_ this side of sharp. Elbowing the comms control, he goes shipwide. "Crew meeting in the commons in five. Bridge, set it to autopilot if you can."

"On it," Daryl replies; he's coming down the ladder less than a minute later. By then, nearly everyone's dropped what they've been doing and joined them in the commons, and Paul meets his raised eyebrows with a shrug before ducking around Spencer to grab the cups off the rack. 

"As it turns out, I picked a shitty day to end up in quarantine." Mitch manages to rein in the anger, but all that's left is wrung-out resignation, and somehow, that's worse. He's steeling himself, though, and manages a half grin at Sasha. Like now that he's had a minute, they can proceed as planned. "But on the bright side, we're not all dead of some unknown space disease, and we're going to be arriving ahead of schedule. And it's things like _that_ that I want everyone focusing on, because a lot of what you're about to hear, it isn't good news."

"Wasn't expecting much of that anyway," Dwight shrugs, sprawling at the end of the table. "Flight recorder data never comes up when everything's running smoothly."

"True," Mitch nods, leaving a space for Sasha and sitting down, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. He pours himself a measure, then grabs Laura's glass and pours her a double, not meeting her questioning, worried glance. 

"What's going on?"

Mitch takes a sip- though he looks like he'd just as soon down the whole thing in one- and leans back in his chair, casting his gaze over each of them in turn. "I have to admit, I've been a little reluctant to call this meeting in the first place, so drink up." 

The bottle makes the rounds- only Dwight and Carl pass it on without pouring, and Mitch uses that minute distraction to take a breath. 

"Okay, I've gone ahead and copied the whole decrypted mess onto our databanks. The folders are stashed in the documents folder, in case anyone wants a closer look." 

Nobody seems to want to. Not even Paul, who's got his tablet at his elbow.

"Well," Mitch continues. "No sense dragging it out, so here we go. Worst news first. I can confirm that NATOPS was setting up a mining operation on the colony. They were bringing soldiers with them, who, for the duration of their trip, were undergoing drills and training to prepare for civilian hostilities once they reached the colony. It's in the log, and the training logs are there to back it up, too, but no mention of it showed up in the databurst."

He looks over at Laura, who, out of all of them, looks the most gobsmacked. Watching her take it all in is borderline painful. Confusion giving way to surprised anger, with a layer of disbelief grows thinner by the second. "So," she eventually manages. "Not only were they _not_ bringing the supplies they were meant to, they were planning to what, start a war?"

"Calling it that would be euphemistic, I think," Mitch says, mouth twisted. "But yeah. They were preparing a pretty thorough defense, if not an outright offense."

"There's not even a primary military presence on the colony. Just AdSec."

"Exactly," Sasha shoots her a sympathetic glance, but she doesn't mention the Saviors. 

None of them do, and it feels deliberate. 

"Fuck."

"They were preparing to meet any local resistance to the mining operation with force, and they were carrying the munitions to do it," Mitch adds. "On the bright side, they never made it past the halfway point."

"NATOPS turns on the colony," Spencer snorts, disbelieving, "and you call that a bright side?"

"I do when it means that, with whatever else may be going on back home, there aren't any more soldiers being added into the mix." He looks again at Laura, and tugs at the badge insignia patch on his coveralls; she's wearing the same one on hers. "I mean it when it means that NATOPS sent our people to _attack_ our own people."

Laura looks equally sick, her knuckles going white on the cup she hasn't let herself drink from yet. 

"You're sure about this?" She looks over at Sasha. "It's not just a misunderstanding?"

"Unfortunately, it's not," Sasha shakes her head, her mouth a thin line. "See, there were reports in the logs. Tensions rising amongst the crew." She glances at Mitch. "It's not entirely clear whether they knew and understood their orders when they launched, but we _do_ know that, a few months in, the crew started to balk. There was dissent in the ranks; if there'd been a misunderstanding, the commanding officers, if they were smart, would've set everyone straight pretty quickly. But it doesn't look like that happened."

"Which leads us to our next point," Mitch says. "There is a good amount of evidence that, whatever happened on board, in the end, it wasn't accidental."

"Evidence?" Carl leans forward, eye darting worriedly in Sasha's direction before settling back on Mitch. "Like what?"

"Security files. There was a report stating that a few hours before the ship reached the relay station, a dozen explosive charges and detonators had been discovered missing. Orders to search the ship were given only an hour and a half before the flight recorder captured the final event. In that time, two explosive devices were recovered and deactivated by ship's security. The other ten were not accounted for. The flight data shows that when it happened, it happened fast, and probably took out the sensors before it was all recorded."

Spencer shakes his head. "Who would do something like this?"

"According to the security log," Mitch checks his notes. "Suspicion landed on Security Officer Dawn Lerner, who'd missed a shift that morning and whose whereabouts were unknown. Officers were doing a welfare check when they found what they reported as a manifesto in her quarters."

"A manifesto?"

"Apparently." Mitch shrugs, then glances down at his tablet again. "One officer Lawson found- and I quote- 'a long and scathing indictment of NATOPS's handling of the mission, primarily focused on the mission objectives and directives being changed without proper transparency.' The report doesn't say anything more- like if it was painted on the walls or on her tablet or what- or how he found it. There's no copy in the system, though."

Laura leans forward, elbows on the table. "Good on Lerner, whoever she is. But shit. What _did_ the objectives say?"

"At first glance, it's the usual boilerplate. Providing support to the Colony and that sort of thing- though it's damningly vague." Mitch prods at his screen. "Nothing at all, specifically, about providing supplies in the directive. The last changes were saved about a month after they'd left Earth. There were sections about bolstering the facilities for rubidium intake that got added. A few pages in, though, there's a line referring to the retrieval of three previously collected samples from one of the colony's geoteams, and that hadn't been changed. So even at the outset, the plan was already in the works, at least at some level."

"We believe Officer Lerner might've gotten wind of this," Sasha adds, "and that's what set her off, at least enough to write her screed and ditch her shifts. Whether or not it was enough to push her into outright _sabotage_ , there's no way of knowing."

Nobody picks up the conversation from there; for several minutes, it's silent. Paul watches Dwight pour himself a drink before passing it to Daryl, who frowns at it, confused. After a moment, his shoulder twitches, and he's shaking his head. 

"So, wait. Fucked as all this is, it's all actually _good news_ , right? Fuckers were comin' to screw us over, an' they didn't make it."

"No, it's the worst kind of bad," Paul says, even as it's still dawning on him, this new deep, sinking feeling. The fact that they're all sitting here, around this table- the fact that they've come _this far_ \- has been based on _one_ assumption. 

Spencer and Sasha look ill, and Mitch is nodding over at him like he's already agreed with the words he hasn't spoken yet, and that alone- that confirmation that it's _real_ \- is nearly enough to stop them dead in his throat. 

He can't even look up from the whiskey sitting on the middle of the table, now that he knows why it's there. 

"We're traveling 74 light years to petition aid from the _exact_ same people who were already set on screwing us over. Everything we're doing... even if we do reach Earth, our plan isn't going to work."

\---

 _Friday, 08/12/2194, 22:19_

Daryl doesn't believe in omens or any of that kind of crap, but he should've known, yesterday, that waking up to find dead bodies drifting outside the window would lend a certain fucked _tone_ to the next few days. 

Sure, they're moving faster now, but there ain't no point to it anymore. And there ain't no point in pretendin' otherwise. 

Dinner had been quiet, if not outright depressing. Book club had managed to hold everyone's attention for all of fifteen minutes before Laura'd begged off, then Dwight, then Spencer'd made some excuses about goin' down to check the tomato plant, and Mitch, sensing how miserable and distracted everyone was, had announced that they'd be leaving the ship on autopilot for the night. 

Daryl'd figured Carl, who'd seemed irritated and bored despite not being hit with the full force of the existential crisis taking over the rest of the ship, might make better use of the vid player than he and Paul would. 

Paul had caught up with him as he'd been heading back into his own quarters, leaning into him and promising _one hour, two at the worst_. 

That had been an hour ago, and still, he and Sasha and Mitch and Spencer are up there, bashin' their heads together over all of it again. Tryin' to sort something out.

Like there's anything _to_ figure out. Getting any help from Earth had been a long shot in the first place, and that was before they'd known that NATOPS was lookin' to sell out the entire colony all on account of some dirt. 

Still, he figures that _someone's_ gotta try, and the four of them are probably more capable of coming up with something than anyone. As far as he himself goes, though, there ain't no point starin' at the ceiling tryin' to ignore what's coming through the walls. 

Laura's done crying, at least. She don't like Dwight telling her _it'll be okay, we'll figure something out_ , though, and it's starting to boil up into an argument, and it's making his skin crawl. 

All on account of some fucking _dirt_. 

\--- 

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 22:48_

Dad might've figured him and Merle lower than dirt, but he hadn't gone this far just to prove it. 

But looking at the warped metal canister lid, it still doesn't make any kind of rational sense. 

The shit burns up when it hits the air. Even the dust, when it's _not_ bein' strip mined from the hills outside the membrane, is enough to blow holes through the filtration system. Shit's dangerous as hell, and last time he checked, Earth wasn't short on ways to blow shit up in the first place. Hell, this shit _exists_ on Earth. 

Outside the membrane, though, there's no oxygen. But even with all that, outfitting a whole mining operation 74 light years away, and carting the shit back seems stupid. Not worth the risk. That's what he's been chewing on for the past little while. 

He can hear chairs dragging, movement up in the commons. Apparently the others are finishing up, finally. 

He's tired; it's late, and it's been a long, fucked up day. For all he knows, Paul's already decided to call it a night. He wouldn't blame him, really. But still. 

Setting the canister down, he straightens up a few tools and heads up towards the ladder, hitting the lights on the way out. The cargo bay goes dark, except for the hydro garden array. 

He hasn't been paying much attention to it at all- that's more Spencer's thing, and Laura and Sasha's. But the tomato plant in the bucket next to the hydro garden, which, last time he'd looked at it, had been making a solid play to take over the whole frame, looks bad. Almost dead, now that he's really seeing it. 

He ain't one for omens, but he's curious. Turns out the dirt's hard as a rock and bone dry, which is weird, but it ain't worth callin' anyone down over it when he can just use the hose from the hydroframe to water the plant. 

He used to know his way around plants in the woods, ever since wiping his ass with poison ivy when he was a kid. He made a point to learn, after that. But gardening ain't never been his thing; for all he knows, it's too late for his efforts to do any good. 

But this is what they do, he figures. They try anyway. 

The water drips out slow, at first, so he twists the dial, increasing the stream- too fast, as it turns out. The water's blasting at the dirt, splattering his legs and shoes, carving a canyon into the hard-packed soil. 

Twisting the valve closed, he glances down, and realizes, just as the muddy water settles over the bottom of it, that there's something there, down by the roots. 

Metal and round, he knows what it is before he even _knows_ what it is, and he reaches in to prod at it- feeling dirt under his fingernails for the first time in months- and finds the edge of it. 

He doesn't want to, but it's just his head getting the better of him anyway, and if he's wrong, he'd rather know _now_. So he gets a grip, and he pulls, and it doesn't dislodge, not completely, but it shifts enough that the water runs down the crevice he's made, and then it's just a thin layer of silt sitting on the top of it. Easy enough to brush off. 

Mostly, anyway. It clings, clearly enough, to the print etched into the lid. 

_CS2148:32-26N15W-K5C3_.


	38. Chapter 38

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 22:50_

The meeting, as pointless and depressing as it's been, finally starts winding down and Paul allows himself a glance at the clock. It's late. Not irrevocably so, yet, but he could've left an hour ago, for all they'd managed to achieve.

Doesn't matter that they've resolved to keep going, that while returning home is less of an unknown than continuing onwards, it'll leave them with fewer options. 

For all they know, Earth doesn't know that the Ambition was lost; there's no telling whether the databurst got through to them. If it did, maybe NATOPS is already planning their next mission. Maybe they've already scrapped the idea altogether. 

Maybe, it's more about doing what they can in the face of what NATOPS will probably do anyway. The rubidium's a bargaining chip, albeit a weak one. But as long as they're at the table, maybe they can negotiate for updated safety precautions in return for local assistance, and aid instead of soldiers. 

When it comes down to it, though, nothing's changed. They don't know what they're walking into. There's nothing to plan for, yet. 

And that's kind of the thing. If Paul could get up and saunter down to Daryl's quarters, proclaiming that they'd solved all of their problems- maybe that thin thread of guilt wouldn't be cinching at his insides. But all he'd accomplished was wasting their evening off.

At least the shock's started to wear off. Sasha's not looking quite so brittle anymore; Mitch has at least landed on a simmering anger that'll probably see him through the overnight bridge shift, but it's better than how lost he'd looked when they'd all sat down. 

Of the lot of them, and despite the fact that they'd all heard Laura, melting down angrily in her quarters, for the past half hour, Spencer's the only one managing to exude some sense of calm, as if the platitudes and reassurances he's been spouting for the past two hours- that they'd get through this, that they still had time, that they still had contacts on Earth they can trust- have actually had any sort of worthwhile affect. 

Paul really wants to believe him, he really does. He gets where he's coming from. Hell, he knows as well as anyone that politics can get complicated. The Council had been rife with disagreements; something the size of NATOPS is bound to be more so. And where there's disagreements, there's options. 

They just don't know what they _are_ yet, Spencer's contacts and angles be damned. 

"Worst case scenario," Spencer had said, "there's a man named Ezekiel. Started off in NATOPS, became kind of a fixer between them, the American forces, and the locals. Managed to coordinate efforts to regain a base from the SA. Which put NATOPS in his debt, though by that point, the brunt of the fighting had moved west and there hadn't been a whole lot of reason for the SA to focus their attacks there. Down side is, there wasn't much point in NATOPS providing regular support by then either. He managed to hold it, though, build it back up. They're allied with NATOPS, but no longer officially answer to them." 

Mitch had squinted at him, nodding slowly, but Sasha'd been more skeptical. 

"This the king you were talking about?"

"Yeah," Spencer'd nodded, before breaking out into the first grin any of them had managed since sitting down. "Long story there, and I don't know all of it. But from what I heard, the Kingdom- that's what they call it now- was right next to a zoo. Back when the area was seeing a lot of fighting, most of it got razed. Found a tiger still locked up there, and released her. Damn thing's been following him like a puppy ever since."

Paul had listened to the whole thing, and the idea had sounded weaker and weaker by the moment. " _This_ has been the ace up your sleeve this whole time?"

"Nah," Mitch had chimed in. "Think I heard about this guy. I mean, not the whole king thing, but... deal was, NATOPS was gonna pull their support, abandon the base so they could build up their forces elsewhere. Only by then, a lot of the local population had already relocated there because of the protection it afforded. Admin was hemming and hawing over continuing any support to the area, but something about a guy showing up to a conference room with a tiger on his heels, informing them that they could leave as friends or as enemies managed to swing them in the right direction. Man's got a rep."

How some madman with a tiger, squatting in an abandoned base, was going to be any sort of option, Paul hadn't bothered to ask. He'd left it to Sasha to arch her eyebrow, shake her head, and magnanimously decide that they'll consider it a plan B. 

Still, the thought of it is weird and bizarre enough that maybe he can use it as an icebreaker in a bit here, when he heads over to Daryl's with otherwise empty hands. 

He can hear boots on the lower steps just as Mitch is admitting that there's nothing more for them to try doing tonight. "We'll come at this with fresh eyes tomorrow," he says, easing to his feet with a barely suppressed stretch. "And the day after that, and the day after that..."

The footsteps in the corridor are coming more quickly now, measured and heavy. Still Paul's not expecting it when Daryl stalks into the commons, toting a crate in his hands, his face wrenched into a snarl as he locks his glare on Spencer.

"What the fuck did you _do_ , Spencer?"

Spencer blinks back at him, confused and offended, but Mitch is the first to speak.

"What's up?"

Daryl sets the crate on the table gingerly and quickly, like he'd grabbed something too hot off the stove and doesn't want it to spill. Sasha's already standing up, peering down into it.

"Is that-"

Mitch leans over, too, his brow furrowing. "What the-"

"Another fucking soil sample," Daryl says, taking a few steps back as if he'd pace, were there the room for it. "Same shit we pulled out of the wall."

Daryl's not wrong. Inside the crate, swaddled by packing blankets, is a glass cylinder, packed tightly with layers of brown and gray and red soil. All capped off by a metal seal, thankfully intact. 

Paul doesn't want to be the first to look up, so he waits for Sasha to move first, the first real indication that Daryl's accusation's landed somewhere solid. 

"I don't-" Spencer's gaping from Daryl to the crate and then from Mitch to Sasha, shocked. "That's not me."

"Found it buried under the tomato plant," Daryl tells Sasha. "Damn thing was looking half dead already. Probably poisoned the goddamned soil or some shit."

His agitation is infectious. Dwight's already coming in from the corridor, with Carl and Laura- who already looks like she's been through the wringer- tight on his heels; they stop in the doorway, though, clearly thinking better of stepping any closer. 

Spencer, whose surprise is giving way to anger; he looks from Mitch to Sasha, and, finding no immediate assistance there, draws himself up. Strides over to Daryl and gets right in his face. 

"Look, you fucking asshole," he strides over to Daryl, storming into his personal space and growling in his face, gesturing wildly. "I _live_ here, why the fuck would I do that?"

"So, what, it just crawled out of the wall and planted itself in your damned tomatoes?" Daryl catches one of his arms when it swings too close.

Eyes closed, Spencer starts to laugh as he shakes his head. "You want to make wild accusations on account of some shit you think you know? Knock yourself out. Who the hell am I to argue, right?" Spencer opens his eyes, then sneers at Daryl as he points back at Paul. "But you wanna get handsy? Your boyfriend's right there." 

Nobody's even looking in Paul's direction, but he can feel it, the effort it's taking them. As it is, it takes more effort than it should to glance at Daryl, who's dropped his hold in favor of crossing his arms. His hair's shaken down into his face, but his eyes are sparking angrily at the floor.

Carl might not know that he's doing it, or why, but he takes a few steps into the room to stand next to him, putting himself in between him and Spencer. From here it looks like he's either getting ready to back him up in a fight, or to distract him from starting one. 

It's the kind of thing Paul would probably be doing, if he could make his feet move. 

" _Everyone_ , just shut the hell up for a second," Mitch says, though the room's already gone damningly silent. Heaving out a sigh, he stands up straight. 

"Dwight, I need you to search his quarters." Mitch tells him, with an apologetic glance in Laura's direction that she doesn't catch. "See if you can find anything that sheds any light on the situation." 

Dwight nods once, nudging his elbow against the back of Laura's arm as he passes sympathetically; she rocks, slightly, but doesn't look at him. 

"Laura?"

She blinks over at Mitch, clearly lost, still not understanding any of this; Paul can see her swallowing from here. Her mouth's a thin tight line and Paul wonders if the spike of anger thrumming through him at the sight of it is about how miserable they're making her, or if it's just easier to lock onto than everything else. "Take Spencer down to the infirmary for a minute. I'll be down in a few minutes and we can sort this all out, okay?"

Her eyes cast around the room, whether searching for another option or some actual _answers_ , it's hard to tell. But she schools her face, manages a nod, and takes a few steps towards the door. She pauses in front of Spencer, who's straightening up, trying to gather the last shreds of his dignity, and Paul can't see her face anymore.

"What the hell happened in there?" They can hear her ask, voice tight, but trying for forced levity once they're a few steps down the hall.

"That Techniki fuck's _lying_ -"

And that's when Daryl moves, spinning on his heel to go after him. 

\--- 

"Murdering him won't make it better," he hears Paul call out from behind him as he stalks towards the corridor.

"Might prevent worse," he replies, not knowing, honestly, what he's got planned once he catches up with him, just knowing that he needs to. At least warn Laura at least. It ain't just him making up some bullshit, here, and now Mitch is getting her caught up in the middle of it.

But then he's being grabbed sharply by the arm; Paul's pulling him up short with a death grip just above his elbow. Daryl twists away break the hold, jutting his elbow down fast as he tries to step past, but Paul's faster, and the rage in his eyes is _too_ damned close, all up in his face as Paul crowds him in, and- _fuck_ , this isn't what he wants- it's all momentum now, his arm still moving out of Paul's grasp and hauling back, rounding for the punch. 

Hes dimly aware of the shouting behind him- Sasha and Carl and Mitch all talking at once; in the split second that Daryl's distracted trying to process it, Paul's raised his hands. Placating, maybe, only he's shifting like he's getting ready to counter and he's gone dead-eyed, like he's resigned to it already- it's _that_ , more than anything, finally and after what feels like hours, that flips the switch in Daryl's brain, and he just freezes. 

Paul lets out a breath, slow and steady enough that it's got to be on purpose, but that glazed stare doesn't move from Daryl's hands. "You do this, what comes next?" His eyes flinch up to meet his, only for a second; there's a hint of irritated sarcasm there that he's tryin' to keep buried. "I'd really rather not fight you."

He doesn't know- his jaw's clenched so hard he can't get it to open-

_I'm sorry_. 

The words are right there. All he needs to do is spit them out. But he can't do this, can't _deal_ with this because right now, Spencer's locking himself in his room, and he's got _god knows what_ in there with him, and there's just not _time_ for this.

"Then don't," he says, and shoves past him again, not wanting to do it, _hating_ that he's doing it, but he can't stop, he can't look, he just needs a minute to _fix this_. And then it registers. Paul stumbling into the door frame as he passes. 

He doesn't hear him go down- he doesn't think he'd shoved him that hard- but he doesn't- _can't_ \- turn to look.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the updated tags: This chapter gets messy. I think I'm heading into trigger warning territory here? But I am not sure how to tag it properly. If you've got any suggestions on how to improve them, I'd love to hear them. See the End Notes for further (blatantly spoilery) information and clarification.

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 23:02_

Carl had nodded at Sasha, then at Paul, and had taken off after Daryl. It had taken a few minutes to realize that the loud crashing and banging wasn't Dwight tossing the room Spencer and Laura'd been sharing, but from down in the cargo bay.

 _Fine_ , Paul thinks, angrily. _Tantrum away, then._

"What should we do with this?"

"Sure as shit ain't keepin' it here, it's going through the airlock." Mitch pulls a face at the sound of something heavy being dragged across the cargo bay floor. "Maybe once things have cooled off some."

Sasha looks a little dubious, though, and when she glances at Paul, he thinks he gets why.

He doesn't want to be the one to suggest otherwise, but she _can't_ be. Not when he's sitting right here, alive despite the near miss.

Still, he needs a minute. Picks up his tablet, still on the table from when the meeting had just been depressing, before it had become _disastrous_ and starts searching through the Ambition's files, pulling up the ship's encrypted logs.

If he can't prove it, there's no reason to bring it up. Really, he's just trying to convince himself, one way or the other. It's hard to concentrate, though, with Laura and Spencer's fighting echoing off the walls and through the halls.

\---

"What I don't understand is why you'd go _through_ with it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, shit. Those canisters are from the Colony, right?"

"I don't know, seeing as how I've never seen them. For all I know _Daryl_ grabbed them off the Ambition and planted the damn things himself."

Paul catches himself holding his breath; a quick glance up from the screen that he's not seeing anyway shows that Mitch and Sasha- and probably the rest of the ship as well- are listening in.

"It was in the _wall_ , Spencer. Right over there." She goes quiet for a minute. "Before we even reached the second relay. And that's just the thing. You wanna point out where you stowed away before lift-off? Was over here, right? So you brought it all on board, you _hid_ it... _fuck_ , it all actually makes sense."

"What, the part where you're jumping on the bandwagon because it's easier than figuring out what really happened?"

"You're Admin, hell, you were on the Council. You knew about the plans from the start, and...fuck."

"Laura-"

"Get your fucking hands _off_ of me," she snarls back, her tone wild enough that Mitch gets up from his chair, but Sasha moves more quickly.

"I've got this," she says, and goes down to intervene.

\---

"Found this in the logs," he tells Mitch, having found what he's looking for amongst the memos and map files, and sensing that Mitch, too, could use the distraction, such as it is.

" _... samples from knoll four have shown promise, and provided much of the groundwork for further research, which Jenner reports is coming along ahead of schedule. We've undergone preparations to isolate, maintain, and secure for return transport the soil samples reported and catalogued by Colony SciMed. Midpoint databurst confirms orders to their Geoteam to submit the three core samples from knoll five along with all related data, upon arrival. Limited on-board testing will commence during the jump back, in order to confirm or disprove the theorized potential of knoll three, where scans have indicated that the heavy rubidium vein, leaching into the substrate layer below, has created an in-situ compound layer. While a more complete survey is required, it is our estimation that knoll one is suitable for Phase III survey. Knolls eight and 16 do, at this time, appear to have similar potential, but due to logistical requirements of distance and depth, Phase I survey is recommended at this time_."

Mitch blinks at him impatiently. "So...?"

"Look. I'm not a fan of this stuff. It's dangerous, we all know that. But if NATOPS is sending scientists out looking for it, we might be able to use it as a bargaining chip."

Mitch pinches the bridge of his nose, than drags his hand down over his face. "That's what you took away from that?"

"What do you mean?"

Mitch leans against the table, dragging the canister out of the crate, carefully He rummages around for a moment, and, finding the nothing he'd apparently been searching for, sets it back down in the padding again, carefully.

"We've only seen two," he says. "So where's the other one?"

\---

_Friday, 08/12/2194, 23:40_

Somehow, it's still Friday when Mitch calls everyone up to the top of the stairs for a quick meeting. It's not lost on any of them that Paul, standing at the railing, still has eyes on the medbay door.

The fact that it means his back is to them is a fact that Daryl's trying not to land too hard on right now.

It's bad enough that Carl's been trailing him around, so careful to stay out from underfoot as he'd helped rummage through crates. He'd been nervous, lookin' like he'd wanted to say something or ask something and Daryl hadn't been lookin' to find any words for a while, so they'd just listened to Spencer and Laura, arguing on the other side of the wall.

At first, at least it had been a distraction. Some sign or validation that yeah, his concerns had been warranted. That someone was takin' this shit seriously, wasn't lettin' shit slide.

But it hadn't taken long to start grating on him all over again. And when it had started getting _really_ bad- when their shouting had started worming down into his spine to the point where he was losing track of things- Carl'd finally decided to glance over him, his one eye lookin' like he'd locked onto somethin' he'd been wonderin' about for a while now, and he'd spoken.

"So. You and Paul, huh?"

For a minute, he'd pretended not to hear him, but he'd felt his eyes on him all the same.

Eventually, he'd managed a shrug, and even _that_ had him feeling like an asshole because this was _Carl_ , practically family. Only maybe better'n that, cause the kid didn't deserve to get shouted at over a goddamned question, Dixon bullshit be damned. Even so, the urge to round on him, to tell him to shut his face, just for asking, just for _knowing_ , had been one that he'd had to fight down.

Besides. Right then, things bein' how they were- things bein' how he'd _left_ them- he wasn't sure it was like that, one way or the other.

"Cool," was all he'd said, grinning a little bit, but he hadn't pushed. Just fell silent and got back to work.

\---

"Okay," Mitch says. "Here's where we're at. Dwight's come up empty, we're going to move Spencer in, confirm him to quarters for the time being."

Laura, looking worn and strung out, nods to the door across the hall. "Is it okay if I grab some things, move out real quick?"

Mitch nods, and Sasha falls into step with her as she heads around and inside. "Daryl, did you find anything more? It looks like, according to the Ambition's logs, there should be a third canister somewhere."

"'Course there is," Daryl snorts, shaking his head, not surprised. To be honest, for the better part of the past hour, he'd been tearing apart the lockdown towers expecting to find _dozens_ of them. "Not yet. Want me to keep looking?"

"In the morning. For now, Dwight, I think we'd all sleep better if the door, here, could be secured from outside. Temporarily, preferably."

Daryl bristles at that. Only resolution he can see is dumping Spencer _and_ his damned dirt out the airlock. But sure, fine. Whatever. Mitch wants to hold a trial or something, they'll ride it out. "Sleep better knowing that canister ain't about to blow up," he points out. "Any plan for that?"

Mitch cuts a glance past his shoulder, intent enough that Daryl's got the urge to follow his gaze, only he knows where it's landing and he just _can't_ , yet.

"I want you to have it prepped for ejection in the next forty minutes. I just need a few to cut the engines."

It's hard to tell whether he means it as a placation or a peace offering, and thinks, maybe, there ain't much difference. Either one's more than he's owed.

\---

_Saturday, 08/13/2194, 00:14_

Right now, it's just a break in the fight.

He watches Daryl and Carl jettison the canister out through the airlock; he even manages to catch Daryl's eye, for all of a few seconds. Daryl's the first to give into the discomfort and break it. Starts talking Carl through the post-checks, even though by now he's got to know them as well as anyone.

It's fine. He's due up on the bridge, anyway.

With the airlock powering down, the ship's quiet and still. He tries to keep his footsteps quiet as he heads up to the bridge; if anyone's managed to get to sleep yet, he's not wanting to wake them up.

There's voices in the commons- Sasha's reporting in to Mitch- so he holds back. Stares blankly at the equipment lock stuck to Spencer's door, jutting garishly into the corridor. Like they'd all decided to close their ranks, and had decided to punctuate it with-

That's stupid. He's just tired. Thinking about how just a few hours ago, Spencer had been there at the table, helping them try to work their way through shit. He'd been the only one resolved to see the other side of things. And now he's, what, a prisoner? A saboteur, to be sure, but on a stolen ship full of saboteurs and mutineers, he's not sure how to weigh it.

He can't see the other side of this. Wonders if Spencer had, if he _does_. Thinks about knocking on the door, but Mitch has the key and it's weird, anyway. Him trying to talk to him now, when half an hour ago Spencer had fought Dwight and Mitch as they'd ushered him up the stairs and inside. He'd been ranting and raving before the door'd closed, screaming to be let out, that they couldn't do this, that he hadn't done anything. When the door had closed, and the lock had clicked so damningly into place, Paul's pretty sure he'd heard him sob.

He'd gone incoherent for a while, and then he'd gone silent.

And fuck everything on every side of it, Paul thinks, but right then, it had been hard to believe that Spencer'd deserved any of it.

There's the drag of a bench moving away from the table, so Paul straightens up, intending on going in to tell Mitch that it worked, that they're clear to move again, but Mitch's voice drifts out.

"Laura, I'm sorry about everything. It's just, the way things were going back there, he needed someone in his corner."

"And you needed someone he'd actually talk to." Her voice is flat. A moment later, she apologizes. "Sorry."

"Me too. You gonna be all right?"

"Give me a night to stare at the ceiling reflecting on my poor life choices, but I'll live."

"You need anything, let me know, all right?"

A moment later, she's coming into the hall, starting when she sees him. She nods at him tiredly as she passes, her eyes landing heavily on the door that had been hers, up until the lock started declaring otherwise.

Inside the commons, the lights are brighter and warmer than the rest of the ship; it's not often that he bothers to realize this anymore. Mitch is sitting at the table, staring at his hands, but he's quick to pull himself up straight.

"We're all good to move out. Though. Could wait until morning, if we wanted."

"No sense in dragging things out." Mitch stands up, stretching, his fists rapping the ceiling. "Sasha's taking over in a few hours."

As he moves past, heading back up to the bridge to start the engines again, he pauses at Paul's shoulder.

"Been a long day. You doin' okay?"

"Had better. But I'm fine."

Mitch nods down in the general direction of the cargo bay; for as easy as it apparently is to stash explosive canisters around the ship, actually losing track of people is hard. Maybe it's just that they're all paying more attention, tonight. "Want me to go have a word with him?"

 _God_ , could this get more embarrassing?

"Thanks," he replies, not really knowing what else to do with himself in the face of Mitch's concern, of his _notice_. "I'll take care of it in the morning."

"All right, well." Mitch's mouth twists into a wry grin. "He gives you any trouble, least we know where the locks are, now."

Paul grins at that. He only has to let it ride until Mitch has passed, and then it pulls back tighter, into the cringe that it was inevitably meant to be.

\---

_Saturday, 08/13/2194, 01:02_

They're moving again, but the familiarity doesn't help him sleep the way he thinks it's started to, sometimes. So he lies away, talking himself into just leaving it _be_ until morning.

But he can hear Daryl rustling around in his quarters, like some constant background hum thats telling him that there's no sense saving it for morning. That maybe he's even waiting, to hash it out.

And things are bad enough. Of the shit that's bearing down on them, this, at least, should be easy to fix.

\---

He taps on the door quietly, is answered by an equally quiet "Come in," but once he's inside, he's not sure what to do with himself.

Daryl's sitting on the bottom bunk, feet on the floor, stock still. He hasn't even stripped down for bed, but Paul cuts the thought off before it can go anywhere too fantastic. If he'd gotten up and left that meeting when he'd wanted to, a lot of things would be different right now.

Not in the long run, maybe, but tonight, at least.

"Sorry about earlier," he says. It's a weak opening, but that's all he's got, standing here by Daryl's desk, wondering vaguely if he'll even be heard.

"Me too," Daryl says, frowning up at him, distractedly, though he doesn't seem drunk; maybe it would be better if he were. He's just... _still_. The kind of still where the thoughts are stringing so quickly together that there's no energy left over to process the contemplation of movement.

A while ago, he'd meant to open up with a story about a king and a tiger. It doesn't seem fitting, any more.

"So, was it Spencer, or what he said that's got you sitting up all night?"

He's cut off by a sharp huff of bitter laughter, and Daryl's holding up his hands, shaking his head. But it still takes him a moment- a long, _agonizing_ moment- to respond.

"More like, how it went down," Daryl says, not meeting his eyes. "Why you're even here."

"Maybe 'cause I'd rather sort this out sooner rather than later." It's becoming a pattern with them, after all, waiting for ungodly hours of the night to bother saying anything real. But apparently he's the only one who's noticed. "Beats letting it fester, right?"

"Why bother, though?" Daryl's still scowling at the floor in irritated confusion, like he's chewing on some great philosophical question, his voice almost even. "Been an asshole to you more times than not."

 _I'm here because I give a damn about you, you stupid prick,_ might've been what he should've said at the start, but the _why bother_ smarts enough that he's almost glad he didn't.

Because he doesn't bother. Not normally. If ever.

So he doesn't mind taking the bait, crossing his arms and leaning back against the cabinet; a practiced picture of goading calm, and he smirks. Keeps his voice pitched low. "What, like right now?"

Infuriatingly, Daryl actually glances up at him with something looking like concern, only a little bit more sad, and shakes his head. "Sorry, I mean. Shit. Just earlier. Know what people look like, when they're tryin' not to get hit twice, you know?"

He says it so easily- like it's just something people _know_ that it takes him a minute to sense the accusation, there, too. And he can't quite parse it out.

And then, suddenly, he _can_ , and the worry and irritation that's been keeping him above water floods out of him, leaving him hollowed out completely.

"So what, you freak out on me and suddenly I'm, what, pathetic?"

He'd been expecting bad. He'd seen the mad, barely-there look in his eyes when he'd gone after Spencer. How it had taken him a minute to even realize what he was doing. And he'd known Daryl'd had a thing about the rubidium, even more than Paul himself, who'd come a lot closer to disaster in that department.

He'd figured, maybe naively, that it had something to do with concern, maybe. Or maybe some convoluted internalized homophobia type shit.

What he _hadn't_ counted on, though, was it being anything this fucking _patronizing_. But somehow, the bottom just keeps dropping out.

"Do you think I'm so helpless, such a bad judge of character, that I'd put my tongue in your mouth, _repeatedly_ , if I was _scared_ of you?"

Daryl frowns down at the floor It takes him a while to say anything at all. "No, I mean. Shit. It's just, _that_ happens, and now you're walkin' in here like _nothin'_ happened. Thinkin' maybe you trust people too easy."

"Fuck you." He can't stop the laughter that bubbles out, much less the bitter tone it takes. Shaking his head in disbelief, he notices Daryl glancing towards the door like he's planning an escape. Paul takes a half step over, blocking his exit. "First off, I _really_ don't, and if you knew what you were talking about, you'd be laughing right now too. But before I say something completely enraged and stupid, let's step this back a second, all right?"

Daryl's noticed his move, eyes narrowed, but he doesn't argue.

Paul's not going to give him the chance. "At the risk of making this conversation worse, I'm going to _trust_ that you'll be honest with me, here, and that you'l hear me out. Okay?"

Looking like he's swallowing glass, Daryl nods.

"Okay. Up in the commons, why _didn't_ you hit me?"

"Didn't want to."

"And when you shoved me into the door frame, did you mean to do that?"

"No, I couldn't- I just," Daryl deflates, looks, suddenly, like he's about to start shaking apart; his hands are digging into his knees, like he's forcing them to stay in place.

The skin on right thumb is shredded and bleeding, the nail bitten down to the quick, Paul notices. The fact that he's almost relieved by it- if only because it's lining up with what he'd been expecting to find, coming in here- isn't something he wants to contemplate too deeply.

"I wasn't thinking, wasn't trying to. Didn't _mean_ to," Daryl says, voice less even than it's been. "But fuck, that don't change the fact that I did."

"It's all right," Paul says, letting out a breath, as quietly as he can, sensing that the worst of it is over, now. "Besides. And just in case you're worried about it, if it ever really went that far, I can hold my own."

Daryl sighs before looking up at him, eyes shadowed, but steadier than they've been. "We've had this conversation before."

"Yes, and we'll keep having it until you _hear_ me."

Daryl nods, pointing at him like he's just agreed with him for the first time since he's gotten here. "That's the problem. When you say it like that, it's like you expect to need to again." He rubs a hand over his face, half muttering to himself. "Like _sure_ , I break your hand, but I apologize and it's all just fine."

"Fine. Alright. That apology, remember that, then. Did you mean it?"

\---

 _Yeah_ , he remembers apologizing. Just like he remembers Dad apologizing to Mom, at the hospital, at her funeral. At her grave. And he remembers how those apologies dwindled out over the course of the next year.

The last time Will Dixon had ever said sorry to _him_ , he'd followed it up with, "but you need to learn."

And a belt. He'd followed up with that, too.

Merle had never been one to apologize for shit. But he _had_ taken hits meant for Daryl. And yeah, he'd left- everyone's got their limits- but he'd come back. And he'd taken him with him. Fresh out of jail, no job, no prospects, and not one word about it, he'd still gotten him _out_.

After Merle'd died, he remembers a lot of people tryin' to stumble words out at him- _sorry for your loss_ and that kind of shit- but Rick's had been the only one he'd really heard. Even so, it hadn't fixed anything. Maybe Rick had felt better for sayin' it, but it hadn't helped.

It wasn't until he'd been in SciMed's morgue, listening to Sasha's grand plan while watching Rovia fight just to stay standing through the exhaustion and pain- pain that Daryl'd _put_ him in- that he'd ever felt the need apologize to anyone.

He'd still felt like shit, afterwards. Still does, whenever he thinks about it.

Merle, he thinks, wouldn't have had to. He would've gone after Negan with the wrench instead, and gone after Dwight next, most likely. But somewhere in there, somewhere along the line, Merle would've at least tried attacking the right person. Daryl, coward that he was, had just rolled over and done what he'd been told.

One swing, and Negan would've been dead. He could've stopped the whole thing, right there. Could've used up all this sick shit inside of him on something worthwhile, instead of dragging more people down into it with him.

\---

Paul's looking at him like he's supposed to say something- and for a second, he has it. He knows the words, he knows his thoughts, knows exactly what he means to say.

It's lost the moment he tries opening his mouth, though, and from the dimming look on Paul's face, that extra few inches he's putting between them, that's not all that's lost.

"I gotta go," Paul says. "Got a bridge shift in a few hours. Guess we can try this some other time."

"Yeah."

\---

The next morning Spencer's found hanging in his quarters. Suicide, by the looks of it. There's a note and everything. It's brief, just one line.

_Laura, I"m sorry. Tell Dixon he got what he wanted._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for suicide (of a character that isn't Daryl or Jesus) and for a scene between Daryl and Jesus that definitely skirts the edges of abuse. It is addressed in the chapter, and it's not my intention to just brush off Daryl's actions here or let him slide, but it will take some time. 
> 
> Like I said above, if you've read it and can help me tag this thing more appropriately, I'd love an assist from a second or fourteenth set of eyes. Like, I don't know whether to qualify this as graphic descriptions of violence because of the near miss, or whether the suicide qualifies as a Major Character Death, but I don't want to take anyone by surprise. Thanks! -Jen


	40. Chapter 40

_Saturday, 08/13/2194, 11:00_

Spencer's funeral is a quiet thing, so far as Daryl can tell, trying to listen for the end of it through the noise in his head, but at least it's not dragging out. Mitch had only called everyone to gather twenty minutes ago, and already, he can hear the airlock doors engaging. Another ten, fifteen minutes, and it'll all be over with. The lower corridor will clear out, and he can slip down to the cargo bay, get back to work. Hopefully without running into anyone. 

Ain't like he can just saunter down there to pay his respects when Spencer'd hung his suicide so squarely around his neck. 

But fuck that note, anyway. He might've thought about wringing Spencer's neck, but this ain't what he'd wanted. Laura doesn't deserve any of this shit. NATOPS had turned on all of them; only she and Mitch had enlisted, though, and he'd seen the hit she'd taken when it had all come out. And as far as her and Spencer go- well, _went_ \- it's like they say. You don't need to know shit about something in order to break it. 

And apparently, that's exactly what he'd done. Her and Spencer. Him and Paul. 

He doesn't know what to do _next_ with any of it, so he just sits here, and waits for the panic that's twisting his guts to subside. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 08/13/2194, 19:20_

Carl's gone so far as to pull the book off the shelf, but hasn't started reading. It's been ten minutes, though, and it's pretty clear that nobody else is coming. 

There's a pang of something- he doesn't know if it's want, or just resigned need- but he thinks about going to track down Daryl, and making some kind of attempt to sort this shit out because even though everyone would be walking on eggshells today anyhow, the fact that they're at least partially doing it around and because of _him_ is depressing. 

Yeah, he'd shoved him. Daryl'd been in the middle of some freakout and he'd gotten too close. That's exactly as much of it as he's willing to own. The rest of it, though? Daryl sitting around, thinking everything through like he's some kind of Techniki philosopher, and not coming up with- not even _trying_ to come up with- any sort of answer that mattered? _That's_ what's got him in this mood. 

Which probably makes Paul a self-centered asshole, to be honest. Because Laura's just lost _Spencer_ , and there's no damningly awkward conversations that are going to fix that. 

So he's been swallowing it down, firm in his decision that nobody's looking at him strange, it's just their own fear and mourning. It has nothing to do with him. He's got no reason to _make_ it about him. Which is why he's sitting here, at the table Sasha'd wiped down after the dinner Dwight had thrown together, elbows on his knees, waiting with Carl for book club to start. 

It's not going to; he shouldn't be surprised. But Carl's here, looking like he doesn't know what to think about anything, and if they're the only two people on this ship who are down for the "fake it until you make it" play, he's not going to just leave him hanging.

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised," Carl says, shoving the book – Lost Horizon- back into place on the shelf. He's not paying attention; the pages splay out, caught along the spine of the next book over. 

"It's been a long day." In his own head, the words sound deliberately detached; if Carl notices, he doesn't let on. He's reached up under his eyepatch to rub at his socket, like it itches. Or like he'd probably just take the whole thing off but for the company, so Paul glances away. 

Another few seconds, though, and Carl sighs. "Probably just gonna be more of the same tomorrow. Thing I don't get is that nobody's talking about _why_." 

"Well..."

"No. Like, that's fucked up, what he did, but Spencer seemed like the kind of guy who'd admit it, then try to work something out, you know?"

He glances at the doorway to make sure he's not going to make things worse by being overheard. "Bad shit just happens, sometimes, you know? Especially out here."

Interplanetary travel means hurtling through space at several times the speed of light, removed from friends and family, surrounded by dangerous nothingness on all sides. It means low thin lights casting almost nothing against drab metal walls. It means that the hours of idle, unending night, filled with nothing but one's own thoughts. It means that every once in a while, back home, in between the databurst updates, the feeds would light up with a quick story of a crew member who'd decided to take themselves out of the picture en route, complete with well-intentioned reminders of the mental health resources available in SciMed.

They don't have mental health professionals, here. It's just them and their best guesses. But they still probably should've seen this coming. 

Even leaving aside the _bad_ days- the mechanical problems, Connor, the disappointments of empty air on the other side of relay communications- they've all had brittle mornings where crawling out of their bunks seems too massive an undertaking. They've all had nights where their bunks seem built more for hiding than sleep in the first place. The recurring circles under Sasha's eyes are the same as Dwight's, as Laura's, as Daryl's, as his. 

So they crack extra jokes, when someone notices it creeping on. They do what they can to distract each other. They talk _around_ it, when it happens, as if meeting it head on and too openly will call id down on all of their heads. 

And fuck expecting it, they should've been _watching_ for it; that much is clear. A little thought, a little action, and they might've been able to get ahead of this. 

Spencer might've been a stowaway. He might've known enough about what NATOPS was pulling that he'd brought explosives on board. And he might not ever have intended on telling the rest of them anything about it. 

But Spencer had become part of the crew. 

And maybe that was part of the problem. It's easier to lie to people you don't care about, even if it's fucked for Paul to be wondering if things would've played out differently, had Spencer managed to hang onto the animosity he'd had for them at the outset. If he hadn't become _one_ of them, maybe carrying what he knew wouldn't have bothered him so much. That, on top of getting caught out. Daryl's accusations and the fight with Laura. His own quarters becoming a jail cell, and knowing that he'd gone from being crew to enemy. 

Who knows. It's probably pointless to try pretending that he's got any kind of insight. Unfair, too; it's not like Spencer's alive to explain or justify any of it. 

"Well, maybe people will be game for this tomorrow?"

Paul blinks, his attention shifting back to Carl as he stands, wiping his hands distractedly on his coveralls. Paul's maybe just imagining the way they seem to fit him better than they had a few months ago. Like he's growing into them. 

Right now, it just doesn't seem like something that's supposed to happen, out here. 

"Yeah. Tomorrow." 

It's how they manage shit like this, after all. It's what they've got.

\---

 _Sunday, 08/14/2194, 23:58_

He and Carl had already gone through half of the lockdown crates before _locate possible third canister_ had appeared on the job queue, but they still have to get through every floor and wall panel, stripping everything down.

He'd decided that earlier this afternoon. Starting down in the cargo bay, working up to the bridge where he now sits, finally getting around to updating the job queue. 

_Crates are cleared in the hold. Next work on floor and wall panels. Leaving ceiling off for now unless ordered otherwise, under the assumption that getting the access rigging in place would have attracted attention. If not found, then moving on to complete strip-down of infirmary, then lower corridor, then upstairs, back to front_. 

He updates the file, and checks to see that the system is still indicating that nobody else is online. It's late enough that there shouldn't be, and he shuts down the program before it has the chance to tell him otherwise. 

"Mind if I join you?" Laura asks, from halfway up the steps, and Daryl's enough of an asshole that his first instinct is to say no. 

He owes her more than that, though. Of anyone walking around knowing that Spencer's blaming Daryl in all this, she's the one who had given some kind of damn about the guy. The fact that she's trying to do this now, here, alone while the rest of the ship sleeps, it's more than he's earned.

"Come on up," he says, taking it off autopilot and switching his screen over to the log update screen so that he'll have a distraction, if he needs it. He doesn't mean to look at her as she ducks under the overhead controls and takes the co-pilot's seat, but he does.

She looks thin-skinned; he thinks he'd be able to see right through to her veins if the light was better. Or maybe it's just that all the blood's migrated to her eyelids, which are rubbed raw. He tries focusing instead on the stars in front of him, but they're moving too quickly. 

The silence drags on; maybe she wants him to speak first. Maybe he doesn't want to hear anything out of all out of him. A glance over reveals only that for how irritated the skin around her eyes looks, they're sharply focused, locked straight ahead.

Another few seconds of this, and he breaks. 

"Are you okay?"

" _Fuck_ am I ever sick of that question," she says, sharply, then shorts, shaking her head. "Sorry. Just been getting that a lot."

"Okay." He says, and then, because it's overdue and it's probably why she's here. "Um. For what it's worth. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to, uh, push that far. With him."

"You sure about that?" 

Spencer sure has hell had been. What Daryl is or isn't sure of don't stack up much against his name in another man's suicide note. 

He tightens his hand around the Y-axis control arm, then makes himself release it, and re-sets the autopilot in hopes that the seconds it'll take will leave him with some sort of insight. The right thing to say. 

He's coming up blank, though. 

"Sorry," Laura says, after a moment's gone by. "I'm kind of a mess right now. But look. I actually managed to pull my head out of my ass for a second there, and realized I probably needed to tell you that, for what it's worth, I don't blame you."

And for some reason, that makes it easier, admitting it: "You got reason to. It's fair."

"Nothing about this is fair. And you might've pushed, but so did I." 

The conversation's more stops than starts, after that, neither one of them really knowing where to steer it beyond the basic lane and long range stats that are the closest thing they have to a weather report, up here. 

As far as he can tell, she's content enough with that, but he's still relieved when she eventually does make her way back downstairs. 

The rest of his shift goes smoothly. There are no other footsteps coming up to the bridge, not Laura's and not Paul's. 

He's been telling himself not to expect the latter, that this whole thing's been his choice in the first place. 

Being proven right stings anyway.


	41. Chapter 41

_Monday, 08/15/2194, 13:01_

Dwight's tasked to help with the searching today, and for the first few hours it's possible to pretend that everything's gone back to normal. 

The fact that it's deliberate, that Dwight's as about as much of a neutral third party as it's possible to be, here, doesn't occur to him until Dwight finishes replacing the bolts on the wall panel and glances over at him. 

"Gonna go up and grab something to eat. Want me to bring you anything?"

"Nah, I'm good."

Twenty minutes later Dwight's back down with coffee and a bowl of ricemeal, which he leaves on the workbench for him. 

"Mitch is on dinner duty tonight, so you might as well eat up now if you don't want to starve to death."

Daryl's hungry enough, at least, to swallow it down. Manages to get through all of it without Dwight saying shit about anything at all. 

\--- 

_Monday, 08/15/2194, 17:01_

Paul only comes down once all day, ducking into the medbay before coming out to grab a fresh pack of anaprox out of the medcrate. He doesn't look at Daryl, and Daryl only tracks him in his peripheral.

Dwight, making himself scarce down over by the loading door, is still an audience. So he keeps his mouth shut. 

He's fucked enough shit up, after all, just by opening it. 

\---

_Monday, 08/15/2194, 17:33_

The comms chime for shipwide, but it's not Mitch rounding them up to eat, it's Laura's voice, sounding watery and tense. "Hey, uh, can someone come up to my quarters?"

Someone becomes everyone, of course, and most of them are already filing in by the time Daryl's made it up from downstairs. The upper corridor smells like burnt miso; it's unpleasant and too thick, but he focuses on it, hanging in the doorway. 

"It was in that cabinet, there-" she says, pointing, looking at Mitch like she's afraid of what he'll say. "I was rearranging, and-"

"It's okay," Mitch tells her, looking past her to the bundle she's got on her lower bunk. From here, past everyone, it's impossible to see more than that, but he can guess, even before Mitch confirms it. 

"Shit, yeah. The tag's the same. Looks like it's the third canister. Still sealed, no reason to be alarmed."

"It's in her _room_ ," Sasha replies, irritably, her hand on Laura's back. 

"Yeah, but it wasn't, though." Mitch straightens up, and when Paul and Dwight step back, Daryl can see that he's holding the canister in both hands. "Not until the other night. Has anyone been using this room for anything?"

A small sea of shaking heads, and Mitch nods once, looking past them to him. "Daryl, you mind helping me do the honors?" 

Paul actually looks over at him, along with everyone else, and meets his eyes for the first time in days. It's just the situation though, and it's definitely not a reprieve. Even if, now that the surprise has worn off, the relief in the room is palpable.

"Sure thing."

He backs out of the doorway to let everyone out; he catches Dwight smirking at Sasha as they pass.

"Ten minutes. Think that's enough time to salvage dinner?"

Laura and Mitch are the last to leave; Daryl pretends not to hear him asking if she's okay, or the deep breath she takes and how it shudders on the way out. Just makes his way down the corridor and down the steps. A minute later, Mitch is passing the last canister carefully down to him. 

Packed so tightly behind the glass, the layered dirt, with its thick red band, almost looks ceramic, like the old lamp in his room when he'd been a kid. The switch on that piece of shit would spark whenever they turned the lamp on, up until his mother, worried that it would start a fire, had replaced it with a desk lamp she'd found at a garage sale, and thrown it in the trash. A year or so later, she'd passed out in bed, smoking, and burned up with the rest of the house. 

It's a stupid thought, but maybe, if this thing gets thrown away far enough, it'll tip some cosmic balance somewhere. Stop shit from burning, this time.


	42. Chapter 42

_Tuesday, 08/16/2194, 07:40_

"I don't get it," Carl tells Dwight, over breakfast. "What's the big deal about this dirt anyway? Like I get that it explodes when it hits air, but... seems like a whole lot of risk just for a weapon."

"Earth's been at war a long time. Could be, they've all just gone nuts."

"Pretty much," Paul agrees. "But. Thing is, on Earth, the rubidium's _there_ , but so hard to mine that it's useless. On the colony, outside of the membrane, it's possible to isolate it pretty easily. The only real trouble is, the best way to get at it is strip mining. Winds up kicking a lot of dust up into the atmosphere, and it gets into the vents."

"Which would destroy the only habitable place on the planet, so again. It's too dangerous, even before it gets transported back to earth."

"The Ambition was bringing protective gear along. Not enough to go around, of course, but enough to show they knew what _they_ were getting into." 

Carl doesn't look like he's surprised by the answer, but he doesn't look like he's satisfied, either; Dwight shakes his head, looking at him. "People in power getting what they want without taking everyone else into account. Think it's just how we're wired as a species." 

"That what happened with Spencer?"

Dwight stirs his coffee, even though there's nothing in it; eventually, Paul shrugs. "Don't know if that's all of it, but yeah. Kinda looks that way."

\--- 

_Tuesday, 08/16/2194, 13:00_

"Just wanted to check in," Sasha says, waving him into her chair, and he sits down, like he's not just dragging himself in here to forestall something worse. "We all saw what happened with Daryl Saturday night. And you've been kind of quiet ever since. Are you doing all right?"

It's a standard enough question, but it's loaded, now, with explosives and suicides and fights and ship-wide misery. 

"I'm fine," he says. "It'll sort itself out."

"Would happen a lot more easily if you and him weren't avoiding each other so much." He's not really sure that's the case, but at least Sasha doesn't make him say it. Instead, she just bowls right through. "Thing is, we're down to seven people. Scheduling's getting tight, and Carl's making progress, but-"

"I know." As if he hasn't been the one drawing up the first draft schedules all week. "It's a small ship. Morale's low. But this thing, it's going to take some time."

"Have you tried talking to him about it?"

_Of fucking course I have_. 

"Yeah. That's what got us where we're at now." He keeps it brief; she already knows what kind of stubborn bastard Daryl can be. She certainly nods like she does, sits back a bit and offers up a wry grin. 

"Well, you're still standing, so there's hope yet, right?"

"Yeah," he forces out the word, like he's swallowing down a lie he hasn't even come up with yet. "Just. Kind of figure the best thing to do is to let him cool off a few days before trying again." Which is laughable, really. Daryl'd been calm enough, after all, when he'd been making it clear he didn't plan on hearing anything Paul was saying, already having decided that it wasn't worth trying to fix things. 

"Ain't that the truth." She looks at him more seriously now. "But. If things get rough, or start going bad, or if he comes at you again for any reason whatsoever, I want to know. All right?"

"Sasha-"

"No. I'm serious. That kind of abusive behavior cannot stand. Gave him a day to see if he'd pull his head out of his ass on his own, but, I'll be having words with him in a bit. I'm not expecting it to go well, but. Just so you're aware."

He swallows down the bitter taste in his throat and grins. "So, what you're saying is, you want me to try mending fences, but today might not be the best day for it."

"Exactly." She cringes out an apologetic face. "Sorry about that. I'm doing what I can, I just don't know how far to push."

"It's been going around."

"No kidding," she says. "But. Okay. For what it's worth- and I'm not saying this to excuse what he did, but maybe explain it- his family, what I know of them, weren't the nicest people- his brother was a total bastard. But somehow, Daryl's got a protective streak a mile wide. I think, in his head, he'd just found a bomb on board-"

"Kind of caught that."

"Yeah," Sasha says. "And the last one nearly killed you, and I think that scares the hell out of him."

For some reason, just for a moment, he wishes he was Daryl. That he could get up, maybe knock over the chair on his way out, and storm out of here, no need for words. But he can't- he's _not_ \- so he just nods, like her insight is useful, and ignores the traitorous part of his brain that's lighting up at the notion that Daryl, somewhere deep down, gives a shit. 

He already _knows_ those exact limits, where Daryl's concerned; he'd damn well made them clear enough. 

"Good to know," he says, reassuringly, and straightens up. "I'm good. What's next on the docket?"

\--- 

_Thursday, 08/18/2194, 19:03_

__He doesn't know what Sasha'd said to Daryl, or what he'd told her, but it hasn't fixed anything._ _

__The last two days, she's been sending him these apologetic glances, which had been bad enough. Today, they're growing a little more pleading, no less pitying, and worse, they're apparently contagious. Even Laura's blinked up out of her days-long daze to ask him if he's okay._ _

__She doesn't ask him to sort this out. She just tells him that she knows he will._ _

__Over dinner, Mitch fills the void of conversation- it's still weird, talking with one less voice in the room- with stories about the strangest supply requisitions he'd seen sent over in resupplies: spoon rests and taxidermy and one demanding teacher's need for a _specific_ shade of green embroidery floss. _ _

__That one manages to get a smile out of Laura, who then goes on to tell them how a shipment of watercolors led to her discovery that her dockside shift lead had a secret hobby- if no great talent- for painting pictures of what had eventually been described to her as horses._ _

__Once the laughter dies down, and the walls start closing in again, Paul casts around and eventually manages to dredge up the story of the time Gregory ordered snails- apparently to _eat_ \- just to show that despite everyone's patronizingly worried glances, he's not becomes such a pathetic ghost of himself that he can't open his damned mouth and participate in a conversation._ _

__He catches Daryl watching more than once, and thinks, just for a minute, that maybe it's a start. Maybe he's even contemplating crashing his bridge shift so they can hash it all out without everyone hovering in their peripherals. Like maybe he'll talk- maybe he'll even _listen_ , this time._ _

__\---_ _

___Friday, 08/19/2194, 02:33 ____ _

____Daryl doesn't show, and it's fine, because Paul's too tired to talk anyhow._ _ _ _

____He manages to stay awake. He _doesn't_ manage to stay focused. _ _ _ _

____He keeps the autopilot engaged until it's time to hand the bridge off to Dwight for the morning shift, then crawls into bed, stares at the bunk above him, and tries to pick it all apart for the hundredth time._ _ _ _

____He doesn't know which is stupider: facing off with Daryl in the commons in the first place, or making such a big deal of the fallout._ _ _ _

____It would be easier, he knows it, just to let it go, to decide _yes, things are broken but I can work with the pieces_ the way everyone seems to be expecting him to. Just, it would be nice if it wasn't being so glaringly taken for granted that he _will_. _ _ _ _

____For once, it would be nice if he could just be honest and pissed off and not feel like he had to apologize over it. But as it is, he figures he's only got a few days left before someone tells him to suck it up and be the bigger person._ _ _ _

____Turns out, he's only got a few hours to go._ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

_____Friday, 08/19/2194, 12:29_ _ _ _ _

____There's no official closing of the ranks, but Paul's been seeing it happening. Daryl and Sasha are back on even, if slightly tense, ground. Dwight's orbit, though he's probably as neutral as it's possible to be, tends to coincides with Sasha's and Daryl's more often than Paul's._ _ _ _

____Carl, with the exception of one failed attempt to hold book club, has been spending most of his waking hours in Daryl's general vicinity. Only now he's ducking his head out of the kitchen as Paul's coming in to scrounge up some lunch, shooting him a look that's probably supposed to be coming across as wise._ _ _ _

____"You know, you guys seemed to make each other happy for a while, there, but now you guys are just making yourselves and everyone else miserable."_ _ _ _

____"Sorry," he says, not bothering to bury the irritation; picking a fight with Carl isn't going to make anything better, but if Daryl put him up to this, then picking a fight with _him_ seems increasingly plausible. "If he wants to talk, I'm not hard to find."_ _ _ _

____The talking's actually what sent the two of them crashing and burning, but it's not on Paul to hold Daryl's hand._ _ _ _

____He skirts the kitchen entirely, like he'd just come up here to the commons for something to read. He grabs blindly, too busy wondering if he's actually turned into what everyone apparently thinks he should be: some coward who just needs a push to get over his own bullshit._ _ _ _

____It's not until later that he realizes he's grabbed Red Mars. The bookmark's still in it, only halfway through._ _ _ _

____He never gets around to finishing it._ _ _ _


	43. Chapter 43

_Sunday, 08/21/2194, 15:07 ___

__"Look," Mitch says, cornering him on the bridge during his mid-afternoon shift. "I'm not going to pretend to know what's going on, but I can tell you what I'm seeing and what I've guessed."_ _

__Great. Last week it was Sasha telling him "you didn't hit him," like the bar's set so low for Dixons that managing even that is actually _notable_. Since then, it's been the loaded looks every time she sees him, as if he ain't been inured to worse since long before she was even alive. _ _

__She's only been tryin' to help; he knows this. It doesn't make it any less irritating, though, whenever she interrupts whatever he's working on with the reminder that _oh, yeah, hey, you're a fuckup_. _ _

__It's like when he was back in school, actually _following_ what the teachers were saying saying for once- War of the Roses or plant cells or math- only to be dragged out by the counselors because they wanted to check the bruises on his elbows and ask him if there was anything he wanted to talk about. Or if he was thinking about hurting himself or someone else, eagerly preparing for the day they discovered that he was, in fact, shaping up to be a serial killer. _ _

__"Shoot," Daryl says, because it's pretty damned clear that Mitch is intending on having at him anyway, probably at Sasha's request. He's been expecting something like this all week, and now Mitch is here, settling into the co-pilot's seat without a glance through the windshield, wanting to talk._ _

__"It's been bad, lately, I know that," Mitch begins. "The hits kept right on coming. The Ambition, NATOPS, Spencer and the fucking canisters and his dick move of a letter. That was last week, though, and you're still beating yourself up. And I'm guessing that's 'cause you haven't seen the end of it yet."_ _

__He's got half a mind of telling him how wrong he is. Actually thinks, for a minute, that Mitch might be neutral in all of this enough to hear it. _Don't give me that much credit, this ain't about Spencer._ It probably should be, under the circumstances. It really _shouldn't_ be about him, decades later, turning into his asshole of a father. _ _

__"You need to talk to Paul," Mitch says, because apparently there was no risk in him giving too much credit after all. "You get that sorted out, the rest of it might not be looking so bleak."_ _

__"I did." Daryl wants to laugh. "He don't like what I said, it ain't magically gonna get any better through repetition."_ _

__"So you make him listen."_ _

__"How? The fuck am I supposed to do? Shake him until he believes me? Only be proving the point."_ _

__Mitch doesn't say anything for a solid minute, so it's just his own words, hanging there, more of an admission than he'd really wanted to make._ _

__"Maybe just think through whatever it is you said to him, and get it right this time."_ _

__Sure. No problem._ _

___Hey Paul. I freaked out, managed to stop myself from hitting you but not from shoving you because apparently, Dixons are shit people and I'm no different. Want to get drunk and mess around?_ _ _

__"He's fine."_ _

__Mitch snorts. "You've seen him, right?"_ _

__It's not like Paul's not been around. They've even worked their way up to _pass the coffee, please and thanks_. But they've both got work to do- more than ever- since Spencer took their crew down to just seven. So he keeps his own head down, and Paul does the same. And yeah, he can tell Paul's still irritated, but only 'cause he clearly ain't thought it through, yet. Some things are safer at a distance, and Daryl figures he's proved that point, loud and clear. Eventually, it'll sink in, and they'll be fine. _ _

__Still, Mitch's tone stings worse than anything else that's come out of his mouth, because it ain't like Paul's withering away to a husk just because he's not able to bask in the sunshine of Daryl's charming personality. He's been hanging with Laura, lately. Playing cards in the commons, or working with her down on the garden. Keeping her company. Maybe helping her out._ _

__Daryl might be a Dixon, but he's not enough of an asshole to pretend like that ain't more important._ _


	44. Chapter 44

_Friday, 08/26/2194, 18:35_

__In less than a week, they'll be reaching the third and last relay point._ _

__Preparing the databurst is, in turns, the easiest and hardest one they've had to wrangle yet. Anything they send back to the Colony will arrive long after they've continued on towards Earth. And Earth, if they'd received the last one, will hopefully be waiting to hear from them._ _

__They'll need to know why they're coming, and what they want. They'll want to know why it's a hastily refitted research vessel, and not the Ambition- if they don't already know that it's gone. They'll need some context to actually nudge them into listen to them, but not so much that they'll give away all that they know._ _

__And, for the first time, this is where they actually _need_ to be heard. Without a response, they'll be flying and landing blind, with no promise of assistance even for that. This is where Spencer would've come in handy. He's still listed as being on the Council. _He_ would be someone they'd grant an audience to through rank alone. _ _

__Between working out the duty rosters- bridge shifts have been and will be too tight until they arrive- and drafting at least twelve different databurst edits with Mitch and Sasha, Paul hasn't had the time to manage more than the basics: food, sleep, showers and exercise._ _

__It's been keeping him busy, which is exhausting but for the best, at least as far as dealing with any intrusive thoughts where Daryl's concerned._ _

__Because things are getting better, in fits and starts, and if he was awake to think about it he'd probably just drive himself crazy. And that would be stupid, because now, after almost two weeks, it's just getting to the point where things are coming up on a corner, and all he wants to do is slam right through it._ _

__They might not be seeking each other out, but they can at least take part in the same conversations at dinner. Daryl might've reverted to sitting against the wall by the door during book club, but he's been showing up again._ _

__The gardening Paul's taken up in his scant amounts of free time might have originally been intended to keep Laura occupied and engaged, but it had also given him line of sight of Daryl's workbench, and for the past few days, Daryl's finally relaxed enough to work down there without his shoulders being a tight, tense line, even if he's still quiet when he does._ _

__They've even worked up to small talk, when they find themselves stuck in the same room together._ _

__Left to his own devices, Paul still tends to sit up all night counting up every point of context, trying to add them into something more meaningful than they ought to be. So the exhaustion's useful._ _

__So yeah. Fits and starts. Things are slowly settling back into place._ _

__But today everyone's in a mood. Sasha and Dwight had gotten into it, quite loudly this morning, over something involving the laundry, Carl's been in another one of his quiet streaks all week, if he's being honest. Snapping at the smallest thing, off in his own head. And now Mitch is just sitting at the head of the table, gritting his teeth, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else._ _

__But Laura's not showing up for dinner, and it's getting late, and Paul's starting to worry._ _

__She's been holding it together reasonably well, the past two weeks, and it seems like she's been starting to come around the other side. But still, Daryl's gone up to start his overnight shift, and Dwight's already settling back in on the other end of the table, and there's still no sign of her._ _

__This was probably always going to happen._ _

__Paul forces his food down as quickly as he can, then fixes a plate and takes it down to her quarters. Nearly knocks on the wrong door, but the lock's still in place, hanging there like a reminder for the wrong thing. Like all the other locks on board, it's set to 2144 as a nod to the year the planet Thera had ceased to become known as anything other than Colony One. Now, though, it's as close to a tombstone as they've got._ _

__He's steeled himself for tears, but the dead-eyed stare, when Laura opens her door, feels worse._ _

__"Brought you dinner."_ _

__She lets him pass her the plate of food, blinking down at it as if it represents some insurmountable task. "Thanks."_ _

__"You okay?"_ _

__"I'll live." She smirks, arching a sardonic eyebrow, and glances at him briefly. "Just. Kind of a stupid shit day. How awkward is it up there?"_ _

__"Think everyone's wishing they'd skipped out, too." She nods at this, but Paul gets the message pretty quickly; she's not looking for any kind of audience. "All right, I'll leave you be, but if you need anything, let-"_ _

__"You wanna drink?"_ _

__He doesn't, not really. But he's become acutely aware, lately, of all the ways it's easy to make someone's bad days worse._ _

__"Sure."_ _

__"C'mon in."_ _

__None of their rooms are particularly ornate; hers is even more spare and sparse, and she's recently scrubbed it all down to gleaming. Waving him into the seat at her desk, she reaches into one of the smoothly shining cabinets to pull out two purloined cups from the kitchen, and a three-quarters empty bottle._ _

__Frowning, she sets it back in the cabinet, and pulls out another; this one is only a quarter full._ _

__"Didn't make sense for it to go to waste, but I'm not sure I'm in the mood for dead man's whiskey."_ _

__"Makes sense." He can't help but think of a ghost story he'd read in school. Something about cowboys in the old American west. She pours out two healthy measures, and passes one over. "You settling in all right?"_ _

__"There's not much to settle." Prodding her plate out of the way, she sits down on the lower bunk. "But on the bright side, I think I've finally managed to convince myself that there isn't another one stashed in my pillowcase or something."_ _

__"It's okay. There was only the three."_ _

__"I know. Just having a hard time convincing my insomnia is all." Laura drinks, staring at her almost-reflection in the gleaming-dull metal of the cabinets. "Better that than thinking about all the other shit, though. Least it means my room's clean. Hey Paul?"_ _

__He sips his drink, not particularly quickly; as soon as he answers, the small talk will come to an end. "Yeah?"_ _

__"Did you see any of that shit coming?"_ _

__He doesn't need to ask, but he does. "What do you mean?"_ _

__"Spencer killing himself. Or being the kind of guy to smuggle explosives on board. Any of it."_ _

__He's been waiting for this for weeks, even going so far as to rehearse his answers in his head while they're working on the garden, or relieving each other's bridge shifts. "Things like this, I don't think anyone really expects it."_ _

__"No. But that's just the thing. I should've been looking, right? I mean, I had every opportunity. And yeah, he'd seemed maybe a little stressed out, lately. I'd actually-" she cuts herself off with a grim laugh. "I actually thought it was just the usual stuck-in-space boredom, combined with him just reacting to _me_."_ _

__"You?"_ _

__"I've been enlisted with NATOPS for twelve years now, in one job or another. Thought I knew what they were, and now... and _then_ , it turns out, Spencer knew about them all along, and didn't say _shit_ , not even to me. No warning, no indication that they weren't what I thought they were."_ _

__She's not the only one. "But he wasn't exactly who you thought he was, either."_ _

__"Yeah. And that's half the problem. It's not like I've been spending my whole life thinking I'm some kind of idiot, but..."_ _

__"You're _not_."_ _

__"I know, but-"_ _

__"But nothing." He downs the rest of his drink for emphasis- and maybe to buy an extra second or two. "If he was deliberately hiding it, which he _was_ -"_ _

__"It's not like he was doing a good _job_ of it, though." Laura looks up at him. "He literally stowed away, had this whole thing- whatever it was- planned out. And I just, I don't know, forgot about it? Ignored it? Because he was a nice guy and we were having fun." _ _

__Paul almost wants to disagree, but the thought's habit, more than anything. Spencer might not've been his _friend_ , but the animosity'd faded, these past few months. And maybe they might've reverted back to their old habits when they landed, but maybe they wouldn't have. _ _

__Maybe, he thinks, watching her pour them each another round, there's just some shit that he doesn't get to know._ _

__"And that's the real bitch of it," she continues. "Because there's this other shit. Like, if I did like him, if I did care, I should have been paying closer attention, and I sure as hell shouldn't have fucking _pushed_ like I did."_ _

__"When?"_ _

__"Downstairs. When Dwight was doing his best not to completely toss our room." She smirks bitterly down at her plate. "Remember? When I was doing all that yelling?"_ _

__"Daryl had just come into the room carrying a bomb, for all intents and purposes. Nobody knew how to react." He snorts, sipping his drink. "I remember a lot of _that_ going around at the time."_ _

__"Yeah, but you're not a soldier." Her face screws up. "Sorry, that didn't come out right."_ _

__"No, I mean, you're right-"_ _

__"Yeah, but. That's just the thing. The whole reason I joined up with NATOPS was to help people out when the shit hit the fan. Not to shout someone into a fucking _suicide_." _ _

__Her breathing's gone shaky, but she inhales deeply and exhales slowly. She's holding, for now._ _

__"That's not on you."_ _

__"It's not _not_ on me." She pokes at the greens on her plate and shrugs, glancing up at him. "But it's definitely not on Daryl, either."_ _

__That fucking letter._ _

__"I know."_ _

__She nods. "I told him that. Dunno if he heard me."_ _

__It's Paul's turn for skepticism. "Know the feeling."_ _

__For a minute, there's not much to be said, and she takes a few bites of her food. "Actually," she says, "I've been wondering, and you don't have to tell me, but... what's been going on with you and him?"_ _

__"Me and Spencer?"_ _

__"You and Daryl."_ _

__He doesn't know what to say, or that he particularly wants to say _anything_. But he doesn't know how to take the out gracefully, either._ _

__"Come on, you let me cry on your shoulder, I'd be a dick not to do the same. Know my head's been up my ass and all..."_ _

__Sure. Because she really wants to hear that Daryl says he knows what people look like when they're not trying to get hit twice, or that so far as Paul's ever known, the best way to avoid that is to not give them a second chance. It's an agreement, of sorts, when it comes down to it. So really, there's no problem here._ _

__Only the base of the glass is digging into the palm of his hand sharply enough that he can feel the tight pull of it in his fingers._ _

__He takes a sip, letting it numb the inside of his mouth, and tries to figure where to start and how far to go, like suddenly this is some sort of deposition. "You heard what Spencer said."_ _

__She nods, looking down at the floor. "How close to the mark was he?"_ _

__It's not as if they'd given a name to it, and he wonders just how much of himself he wants to put out there by trying now._ _

__The answer, it turns out, is not much._ _

__"Dunno," he says, more lightly than he feels it. "Hadn't gotten around to defining it."_ _

__When he doesn't say anything more, Laura looks up to shoot him a wry grin. "Yeah, well. If you two are just having a bit of fun, well. It doesn't look all that fun. Thought he was going to haul off and punch you."_ _

__"Yeah, well. So did he."_ _

__"But you didn't?"_ _

__As much as he'd like to simply blow her off, saying, _no, of course not_ , they'd all seen what happened. They'd all been there, gawking. He'd grabbed Daryl first. He'd squared up for it, he'd been _ready_. And he hadn't been surprised when Daryl'd shoved past him, either._ _

__And that's just the fucking thing. He _hadn't_ trusted that Daryl wouldn't hit him. He'd been fucking _ready_ for it. There's actually a stupid juvenile part of him just wishing that Daryl would've, because then maybe it would've been a fight that he could've ended, not this unsettled lingering bullshit permeating every moment of his day. _ _

__"Yeah, well, he didn't, so..." He shrugs, easing his grip on his glass, and hopes this is the last time anyone decides they want to help him pick it apart. It's gotten boring, and he's tired of it._ _

__"Have you talked to him about it?"_ _

__"That same night." He smirks, because if it doesn't bother him, it doesn't have to bother her, and he doesn't have to talk about it any more. "Might've made matters worse, but we talked."_ _

__Laura gives him a long, unblinking look. "You're being diplomatic, aren't you."_ _

__"Maybe."_ _

__"Well, that sucks. But I guess I'm glad to hear it.."_ _

__"How do you mean?"_ _

__"You're the last Admin left. _You_ start losing your shit before we get to the negotiating table, we might as well scrub the mission and turn back now."_ _

__\---_ _

_Friday, 08/26/2194, 14:19_

____The sound of the drilling is louder in the commons than it had been in his quarters, but it beats the random clattering of panels as Dwight makes his way along the upper corridor, replacing the wiring lead for the infirmary, which means it's still the best place for him and Sasha to sit down and finesse the Ambition encounter for the databurst._ _ _ _

____Or it would be, if Daryl and Carl weren't working just a few feet below them on the drainage system, their voices coming up loud and clear through the floor. Neither of them are speaking loudly, but with Sasha sitting next to him, throwing him increasingly concerned glances, the two of them might as well be shouting._ _ _ _

____"...just think it's kind of weird, is all," Carl says, "him always assigning you crap like this."_ _ _ _

____"How so?"_ _ _ _

____"You've gotten more shit details than anyone. All this low priority stuff suddenly getting flagged for handling? Just the timing seems funny."_ _ _ _

____"You think he's doing it on purpose."_ _ _ _

____"Maybe."_ _ _ _

____Paul doesn't dare look up at Sasha. Feels her eyes burning into the side of his face nonetheless._ _ _ _

____"Okay, but if we ignore the low priorities, they'll all become high priorities." Daryl pauses; something clanks. "See what you're doin', man. Appreciate it, but don't go lookin' for some big evil motives where there ain't one."_ _ _ _

____He doesn't look up at Sasha; he knows she's watching him as Carl replies. "I'm not saying he's evil. Just think he's being kind of a dick lately."_ _ _ _

____"That why you been such an ass around him all week? Don't _think_ I haven't noticed." _ _ _ _

____"Okay, _Dad_."_ _ _ _

____Paul's biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. "Whatever." Another pause; this time, punctuated with the sound of a drill scrub thrumming up into the pipes; Daryl's talking before the sound dies out, his voice low and irritated. "You want to see what goin' around accusing people of shit does, go ask Spencer."_ _ _ _

____"No, I just mean-" Whatever Carl might've said next is cut off by Sasha, dragging her chair heavily across the floor as, unimpressed, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head._ _ _ _

____Beyond the drill scrubber, there's not much else to hear._ _ _ _

____He just kind of wishes it would stop him from trying._ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

_Friday, 08/26/2194, 18:35_

______The problem with being on the ship is that it's a closed- and _very small_ \- system, requiring constant maintenance. The drainpipes are maybe a third of the diameter of the smallest ones on the Colony, and even those had been half the size of the ones used down on Earth. Daryl's never seen the cruiser-grade works up close, but he'd imagined they would've been larger than the RV's at least, which had never originally been meant for this long a haul, seen this much regular use, and which had not been included in the upgrades. _ _ _ _ _ _

______At least working on the system had given him the opportunity to reset the timers, setting them from two and a half minutes to three and a quarter. He doesn't want to believe that he's the sort of guy to take pleasure in someone else's death, but he doubts anyone will complain, either._ _ _ _ _ _

______And tonight, he _definitely_ needs to avail himself of every extra 45 seconds. Once the drains had been taken care of, he'd figured that he might as well handle all the foul-smelling work in one day, so he'd moved on to dealing with the vacuum hood in the kitchen. Damn thing had been made of nothing but tiny, flimsy, grease-covered screws; it had taken him two hours just to disassemble the housing and clean the out the filter. _ _ _ _ _ _

______All he's really got to show for his efforts are the spattered remains of clogged drains soaked stiffly into his coveralls, and grit and grease creased into his elbows. So of course, now that he's gross as hell, looking and feeling like he'd rolled around in a sewer before going five rounds with a skunk-infested deep fryer, Paul just happens to be settled comfortably in the commons, clean and tidy and perfect looking enough that it feels almost deliberate._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Kitchen's sorted." Daryl says, trying not to look up long enough to really catch Paul's attention. "Drains too."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Of course, he's already looking up, eyes wide and vaguely alarmed, in case Daryl wasn't already aware of how disgusting he was. "Cool. Did you get the queue updated?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Will in a bit. Need to grab a shower, first."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Skipped mine today," Paul offers, eyes darting back down to his book. "If you want to punch it twice."_ _ _ _ _ _

______It's a suspicious offer- pulled up like it is, Paul's hair ain't even greasy looking. But a six and a half minute shower sounds too good to be true._ _ _ _ _ _

______Or it would, if not for the fact that Paul's noticed how much he needs it._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Thanks," he says, ducking his head down and continuing into the washroom, trying to keep a normal tone. "I owe ya one."_ _ _ _ _ _

______\---_ _ _ _ _ _

______Nothing on the shelf had looked any more entertaining than the book he'd grabbed at random, but Paul's still pretty sure he'd only sat down to start reading it out of spite._ _ _ _ _ _

______The first two chapters had been tedious- slow, but not written well enough that he could keep the characters name's straight, much less care about any of them. He'd skipped ahead, letting the book fall open to the break in the binding, hoping against hope that something had finally started happening._ _ _ _ _ _

______He supposes he shouldn't have been surprised to find that the pages opened to a detailed, if disappointingly straight sex scene. But, brain on autopilot, he'd started reading through it anyway._ _ _ _ _ _

______That, it turns out, had been a mistake._ _ _ _ _ _

______Because it's been a while._ _ _ _ _ _

______And because when Daryl'd walked into the commons, barefoot, coveralls bunched around his waist, it had taken a moment for Paul's brain to transition from the hero in the story to his crewmate. And somewhere in the middle, the detailed description of the way the hero's shoulders had filled out his shirt had become a too-exact depiction of what had been standing five feet away from him._ _ _ _ _ _

______And now he's listening to Daryl's boots hitting the floor and laundry being shoved into the reclamation wash unit. The shower turns on, and his book- as nearly interesting as it might've been- is suddenly just a blur of words that he can't even _find_ on the page. _ _ _ _ _ _

______He should get up off the bench. Vacate the premises, and head back to his quarters. Because otherwise he's just going to sit here, hyper-focused on the other side of the washroom door like some sort of teenage creep._ _ _ _ _ _

______After what seems like a very long time, the shower cuts off, and the washer lets out a ding, and the whole cycle starting over again is his cue to leave._ _ _ _ _ _

______Taking the book with him, he retreats back into his room for the night, strips down and settles into bed. Listening acutely for the sound of footsteps going past in the hall, he again begins to read._ _ _ _ _ _

______It's not much, it's not even enough to hold in his head while he gets himself off, as quietly and unceremoniously as he can. Wiping himself off on a washrag he digs out of his laundry pile- he'll need to wash it tomorrow- he lies back down, rucking the bedding to the side and leaving it there._ _ _ _ _ _

______He lets the cool air prickle at him, and tries not to think about wet skin and empty space and the disappointing realities of the liberties he takes in his own head._ _ _ _ _ _


	45. Chapter 45

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 07:30_

_We should talk_.

No. Too official sounding, like he's already decided how the whole conversation will go, and that's what got him and Paul all fucked up in the first place.

_Got a minute?_

Maybe. But maybe not enough warning. Probably won't help giving him whiplash, if Paul's thinking he's gonna ask about the ventilation system or some minor detail about the relay prep. 

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

"You were zoning out there, man."

"Yeah." He glances at the clock, realizes that Paul grinning at him when he passed him the coffee this morning has proved to be enough to cause him to lose the better part of an hour. "Sorry. I'm good."

He's about as focused as a gnat in a windstorm, apparently, but he's here. 

Thankfully, before he even has to ask how they're doing, Mitch comes over the shipwide. 

"All right, we've locked onto the relay, the signal's clear." 

Another moment goes by. At least Daryl manages to stay focused for every agonizing second of it, this time around.

"This is Acting Captain Mitch Durand, of the Sagan RV from Colony One, hailing any and all NATOPS listening stations, please respond."

The response, if one's coming, will take a few minutes to arrive. 

"All right- Laura, wake _up_ \- I'm transmitting the databurst now," Mitch says, before trying again. "This is Acting Captain Mitch Durand, of the Sagan RV from Colony One, hailing any and all NATOPS listening stations, please respond."

Still no reply. 

There's nothing to do but wait. And maybe worry, as it turns out. If it doesn't go through, they don't have a vetted landing site. They don't have anywhere to start. Every single one of their plans will be for naught. 

He doesn't know what's made it to the final draft of the databurst; everyone'd stopped asking about it days ago, either out of pity, or not having the patience to sit through the minutiae. As far as Sasha'd explained it, they were sticking to the bigger topics, for now. 

They wait for a very long time. 

He'd known where they were when he'd woken up this morning, but the weight of it hadn't quite registered. Then again, his head's been so far up his own ass, it shouldn't be a surprise. Still, he thinks that someone should've warned him about how tense it would be, waiting for a simple comms transmission to make or break them. 

Dwight keeps looking towards the steps, like maybe he, too, is thinking about abandoning his post at the airlock and heading upstairs to join the others. 

Then, finally, interrupting Mitch's third attempt, a crackling noise comes through over the shipwide. A woman's voice- the first they've heard in months that wasn't their own- thin and staticky. 

"RV, this is NATOPS listening post 157. We read you loud and clear."

\--- 

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 08:48_

Dwight and Daryl pile into the commons as quietly as they can, both grinning wide. 

They'd made contact. Earth knows they exist, that they're coming. 

The conversation's been slow going, with the usual minutes-long gaps between transmissions, but Mitch and Laura have already made some headway. Communications Officer Alexis Dulaney's already put in a call to get the brass on the line, and has put in an order for focused telemetry sweeps to start tracking their position on the approach. 

"Be advised that Commander Carlisle will be on the line shortly," Dulaney reports, and then, mere moments later, another woman's voice comes on the line. 

"Sagan RV, this is Commander Ella Carlisle, it's good to hear from you. We are downloading the databurst already, thanks for that, but we don't have one ready for you."

"That's okay, we weren't expecting a reply," Mitch responds. It will arrive on Earth in a few minutes, probably out of sequence by then, as Carlisle continues.

"I'm sure you'll understand that we were not expecting any sort of craft coming our way, but of course we will get you on the ground. My superiors have been very concerned about Colony One's status ever since we lost communication, and some of my officers, here, are quite up in arms over the fact that you'll apparently be coming in a research-class ship. You've got some fans in engineering already."

"Thanks for that. Unfortunately, the Ambition did not reach the Colony. It ran into issues at relay station two, and there were no survivors. The details as we have them are in the databurst, and we've included the records we were able to obtain from the wreckage. I'm sorry."

"How's our window holding up?" Sasha ducks her head out in the corridor to ask.

"Wide open." Laura calls down "Two hours, long as the channel holds?"

Into the comms, she relays the same to Earth, and they spend another ten minutes waiting for a response. "At this time, we will have to make arrangements for your landing site, and, due to logistical and security purposes, we cannot tell you where that will be just yet. When you arrive, prepare to orbit for a few days; we'll be in touch. At that point, we will have mobilized a landing crew, established a quarantine zone and coordina-"

She cuts off, suddenly, and for a few minutes, all anyone around the table can do is stare blankly at one another. 

"Shit."

Dwight frowns. "Laura?"

"Our link to the relay just cut out." The tablet on the table blinks to life, a red notification popping up; Paul grabs it. 

"Hardware or software? Sasha asks him.

"Processor alert," Paul scowls, passing the tablet to Dwight. 

"I'm rebooting it now," Laura adds. "Open channel, this time."

Dwight's already shaking his head. "It's not gonna-"

"Fuck," Laura cuts him off and tells them all what they need to know, all at once.

\---

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 10:04_

They haven't lost their window yet, but they're about to, and so far Dwight and Laura haven't been able to troubleshoot their connection. Even so, Paul's willing to admit that they'd already gotten more than they'd hoped for. 

Earth knows they're coming. They'll help them land. Everything else, they can figure out later. 

Still, though, it's frustrating.

"We just need to get that fixed before we land," Carl says. "Right?"

"Would be better if we can get back online in the next twenty or so," Mitch calls down. "Relay was online when we went dark, but I'm not reading it."

"You get the ladder, I'll get the stuff?" Daryl asks, figuring they might as well start close and easy, because if it's not that, then it's going to require outside work. Dwight follows him out of the commons, but stays behind to start hauling the ladder up. 

"Sorry, guys, gonna have to trap you there for a minute."

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," Laura replies. 

When Daryl comes back with the driver and the toolbox, Dwight's underneath the swung-up ladder on his knees, looking down at his tablet. The panels are bowed in, slightly, at the edges, from where the ladder supports, weighed down by so many feet, have been pressing. 

The first screw comes out, and then the second and third. Even with the denting, the whole thing clatters to the floor when the fourth comes out. Dwight peers into the cubby, turning on his flashlight, to focus on the then passes it to Daryl with a frown. "Looks fine to me."

The indicator lights are all green, but as he's looking away, one of them, down at the bottom flickers. "Oh," he prods Dwight's shoulder and points. "Hey." 

"I see it," Dwight confirms, setting down the flashlight down on raised floor of the cubby, pulling the clip and examining the end of it. "Yeah, the connector's corroded. Give me a second."

Daryl's already got a swab prepped, and it doesn't take more than a minute for it to eat through the buildup. Dwight plugs it back in, and calls upstairs. "Try it now."

"- for retrieving the flight data" Carlisle voice comes through over the comms. "I know it must have been out of your way. We really do appreciate it, and so will their families."

Problem solved, Daryl backs up to give Dwight some room, but he's looking from the tablet to the panel and back again.

"What's up?"

Dwight shakes his head. "This is weird. Hey Paul?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember if there were any updates to this area when everything else was going on?"

"Huh?" Paul steps out into the corridor behind him, then shakes his head. "Engines, shielding and life support, that was about the extent of it. Why?"

Daryl leans over Dwight's shoulder to see where he's training his flashlight. The control panel comprising the back wall extends down past the floor of the cubby; he can just make out a line of green lights trailing down behind it. 

It's not the first awkwardly placed tech on board- any ship this size, things tend to get crammed in, and not everything makes it into the schematics- but it's open at the sides. And the floor of the cubby isn't bolted to anything at all; it shifts under Dwight's hand. 

Daryl watches as he leans into it more, feeling down along the right side, and then the left. 

"Huh."

"What?"

It sounds like two clips are being undone, and then the shelf comes loose.

Only it's not a shelf, it's a lid.

"You've _got_ to be fucking kidding me." Dwight snorts, shaking his head, and backs off so Daryl can see. 

Inside- and honestly, it's not a surprise, there's a part of him that's been almost expecting it for weeks, every time they open anything at all- are three. More. Fucking. Canisters.

\---

Their discovery isn't relayed to Earth. He, Sasha and Mitch had spent too much time making sure any and all mention of rubidium has been limited only to the original files they'd pulled from the Ambition. Those, at least, had originated on Earth, and scrubbing them from the record would only raise suspicion. Better to let them think they'd simply overlooked it. It'll come up at the negotiations, to be sure, but they need to get to the table, first. 

Besides, they're drifting out of range of the relay unit, and Laura and Mitch are scrambling the databurst that's suddenly registered, Earth apparently catching on quickly to the situation and sending up as much info as quickly as they can. Unspooling it will still take a little time, but by the time Carlisle breaks off, transmission finally lost, they've at least received the completed file. 

Not that anyone's particularly interested in the contents, at the moment. Laura and Mitch can close it all out; right now, everyone else is just watching Dwight and Daryl trying to drag the box out of the wall. It's not going particularly well. The cubby, evidently, is small enough that dropping the case had been possible, but getting in there to drag it out, especially knowing the volatility of the contents- is proving far more troublesome. 

"Just take out the lower panel," Daryl suggests, after a solid ten minutes of trying.

Dwight shakes his head. "Frame's in the way, even if we do. Could just take them out one by one."

Paul's angle isn't such that he can get a good read on Daryl's face, but it's enough to see the stress there. Before he can reply, though, Carl's shouldering past Paul, waiting for Daryl to step aside. "Think your own arms are getting in the way. Let me try."

Daryl hesitates, a moment, but shifts when Dwight does, and backs out of the way, stepping out from underneath the overhanging ladder enough to stand straight. Paul feels Sasha peeling off of the back of the group and heading for the cargo bay. 

"Be careful," Daryl coaches Carl, "and don't force it. If you get it out, just set it down on the floor. I'll take it from there. "

It takes some twisting, from the looks of it, and it doesn't seem like Carl's having any better luck than the other two'd had, but then something gives. With a dry scrape, he's rocking back on his heels, stepping backwards in a crouch, and setting the box down again. 

There's a soft thud behind him; Sasha's hauled one of the lockdown crates up, has it stacked with the packing blankets that had comprised her plan B. 

"Awesome," Daryl says, only there's no air in his voice at all. "Okay, Carl, come back out of there." When Carl does, he takes his place, kneeling in front of the box and shining Dwight's flashlight down into it. "Think they're intact. Not seeing any sort of burning on the foam. Thinking we would've known if it'd happened. But I gotta check."

"Daryl," Paul shakes his head, but in their positions, Daryl's the only one who can't see it. Even as it is, Paul can only barely make out the grim twist at the corner of his mouth.

"You'd rather not know?"

There's not much he can say to that. At least, nothing that doesn't run the risk of triggering a different kind of explosion. So he keeps his mouth shut, and tries not to be too obvious about taking a step back. 

"Dwight, can you get the flashlight?" 

With Dwight training the beam down over his shoulder, Daryl slowly reaches in and slides the first canister out, twisting it in his hands before turning his examination to the interior of the box, and eventually sliding it back in. He repeats the process with the second canister. 

"Hold up," he mutters to himself. 

"What is it?" Dwight asks.

"Dunno. Looks weird."

"Okay, thanks for that, but is it _bad_ weird, or-"

" _Dunno_. Dwight, man, put that down and hang onto this for a second, all right?"

Dwight does so, moving slowly, as if he's picking up a bomb- then again maybe he is- and Daryl rummages down into the gray foam, sliding his hand down between the foam and the interior wall of the box. He pulls out a slip of paper, which he doesn't glance at for more than a second before passing it blindly over his head. 

He takes the paper- it's actually a folder- and opens it up. 

"What's going on?" Laura pokes her head out, craning to look through the steps of the ladder to try and see. 

"They're intact," Paul assures her, not that it does much against the tension in her eyes. 

He only has time to glance at the folder's contents a second before deciding that really, Mitch and Sasha need to see the rest of it first. He passes it back to her wordlessly, and turns back to find Daryl pulling the third canister out-

-only he's jumping back, nearly knocking Dwight over, as dirt scatters _everywhere_.

It doesn't explode. Doesn't even ignite.

Even so, it takes a few moments before anyone's willing to speak. 

Paul's staring too hard at the mess to register, much less think about, his own words. "You okay?"

It takes Daryl a moment to move, letting out a breath and nodding slowly, but he doesn't look up. 

Brushing what dirt he can back into the case, he slides the canister down into its slot. It doesn't seat fully, but there's enough give in the padding of the crate's lid that he manages to clip it closed. 

For a second, it looks like he's just going to stay crouched, there, but he brushes the dirt off his legs, slowly and carefully, but then he's not the only one waiting for a spark. He picks up the crate, and glances over his shoulder, and nods at everyone to clear the aisle.

Paul and Sasha back into the commons to give him room to pass by. Carl hits the wall on the other side of the commons, but Dwight follows Daryl to help him get it down into the cargo bay. Everyone's eyes are on them long enough that it takes them a moment to remember the ladder; up at the top of it, Mitch is looking furious.

"What the fuck happened?"

"The bottom fell out of one of the tubes," Paul explains, dragging the ladder down, lets him past. "We're okay." 

Laura, for her part, doesn't give any indication that she's got any intentions of getting any closer at all, and honestly, he can't blame her. 

He follows anyway, though, glancing into the commons to catch sight of Sasha's stunned face as she reads.

He knows it's a stupid question before it even leaves his mouth, but he doesn't just like the idea of leaving her there. "You good?"

"Oh, I'm fine." She looks through him to the dirt that's settled all over the floor, her smile tight and angry, and twitches the folder in her hands like it'll give her some handle on the situation. "Just. Don't know what kind of fucked we're looking at, here."

\--- 

"Daryl, hold up."

"It's fine," he says, though it really isn't. 

"I get that, but I need to see."

Mitch reaches the bottom of the ladder, the others streaming behind him, so Daryl sets the crate down next to the airlock and backs off to make room. Now that it's out of his hands, he finds himself suppressing a flinch at the sound of latches being sprung open.

"It opened," he explains, before Mitch can even get the lid open. "Spilled one all over the damned place." Having just walked through the hallway, this probably isn't news. "Didn't go off."

This is obvious, too, but Mitch nods anyway. "Lucky thing," he says, crouching to peer into the crate; the interior is filthy, now. "Guessing they're not the same thing?"

"Don't look that way." He waves a hand at Dwight, prompting him to pass the flashlight to Mitch, who shines it down, illuminating lids stamped with the same gibberish the other three'd had. The contents, spilled or not, are all the same solid gray-red. No streaks, no layers. No fuckin' _explanations_ , neither.

"Nothing's burnt," Mitch confirms.

Paul, still hovering back by the steps, edges forward. "That's good, but what are they _doing_ here?"

"I might have an answer on that," Sasha calls down, from the top of the steps. "Soon as that shit's sorted out, everyone come on back up here."

\--- 

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 11:15_

"It's like we're dropping mines, out here," Carl mutters, once they're finally moving again. If he's right, at least this one seems to be fairly inert. Even so, Paul's careful to enter the information into the route map. Just in case anyone comes out this way again. 

The notion should be making him a lot happier than he is. An hour ago, they'd just gotten confirmation that Earth is anticipating their arrival. It's _huge_ , the best news any of them have received since boarding the RV. 

It would've been nice, just to bask in that for a while. Instead of going another round with this.

By the time Laura gets them moving again, and Mitch is satisfied to leave it in autopilot for a while, Daryl's gotten the mess cleaned out of the corridor. Sasha's ducked into the kitchen to make coffee- probably to forestall any questions from everyone who's already gathered in the commons. 

Carl and Dwight are sitting on the window side of the table; Laura's at the end, resting her chin in her hands and looking like she's ready to go to sleep. Paul's been sitting here just long enough that he can't keep his knee from jumping, and Daryl's been pacing back and forth since he arrived. 

Sasha brings the coffee out once Mitch sits down. Nobody dives for it, but Dwight does pour himself a cup that he doesn't seem too intent on drinking.

"Scanned the databurst they sent up," Mitch announces, as Sasha's taking her seat next to Carl. "Wasn't much to it, we can talk about it after." And with that, all eyes turn to Sasha, and the paper she's pulling out of her jumpsuit.

"All right," she says, pulling the paper out of her coveralls. "This is a letter from Councilwoman Monroe, addressed to someone named Dr. Jenner in the Strategic Research Division, what and whoever that is. From the looks of it, they've already been in communication for a while. I'm going to read through this, then pass it around, I guess. It's not long." 

She looks up- Paul nods when her gaze lands on him- and starts to read.

_Dear Director Jenner._

_I hope that this finds you well, that you find this timely, and that you'll forgive our rather unorthodox means of delivery. By now, I'm sure you've discovered, as we have, that the Ambition did not complete its scheduled journey out to the Colony. It is my hope that along with this package, we will have been able to shed some light upon the fates of those brave souls who endeavored to make the journey. If the worst has in fact happened, know that the Colony grieves with you._

_I've entrusted this letter and package to my son Spencer, who you'll remember from the Belhasa Foundation's Gala last year. Since then, I'm happy to say, he's continued to distinguish himself in the administrative departments of the Colony, and has recently been elected to Councilman. As such, the Council has entrusted him to speak for the Colony and to negotiate on our behalf._

_Spencer's brought with him the samples we discussed in Dubai, and is prepared to donate them to the Strategic Research Division with no strings- barring the necessary safety precautions for testing. I think you'll find that these more recent samples, as opposed to those recovered in 2163, will have the content and density that your department had been looking for._

_The beta layers in these three cores are much thicker than the '63 samples- and spread over a much wider landform. If separated in an anaerobic environment, the permeation layer should hold up long enough for extraction. It is, of course, my hope of course that peace has come to Earth before this package arrives, but if not, and if your hypothesis is correct, this may provide the means to addressing the infrastructure concerns raised during the conference._

_In exchange for the continuation of supplies and support, as well as local facilities improvements, we are prepared to provide the raw materials, the labor, and the test subjects, in a secure quarantined environment, thereby circumnavigating several of the concerns raised during the conference._

_If, however, the Strategic Research Division has moved on to other areas, I would ask you to keep our unique resources and capabilities in mind going forward._

_Thank you,_

_Councilwoman Deanna Monroe_

\--- 

"What the _fuck_?" Dwight's the first one to process everything they've just heard, but suddenly, everyone's talking all at once. 

"So wait, which samples is she talking about?" Mitch reaches out for the letter, but Daryl's grumbling over him. 

"The fuck's a permeation layer?"

"More to the point," Sasha counters, passing the letter to Mitch, "what the hell does she mean by _secure quarantine?_ "

Paul gets up to read over Mitch's shoulder, but no sudden clarity comes from the words on the page, not even when Mitch twitches in irritation and passes it to him. 

"I don't get it," he hears Carl complain, as he reads. "We were looking for three, we found _six_. So what's the deal with the ones that Spencer was hiding?"

"From the looks of it, he was hiding a lot more than that," Paul offers, shaking his head and handing him the note, no more knowledgeable than he'd been a moment ago. 

Fucking _Spencer_. 

Daryl's finally stopped pacing, instead, he's worrying that ever-resent hangnail while he stares at Carl like he's going to look up with some new useful insight. 

"Paul," Sasha asks. "Any of this ringing any bells around the Admin side of things?"

"I wish," Paul scoffs, his eyes drawn to Laura, who's the only one who hasn't moved. Sasha's gaze follows his, and the worry begins to twist in his gut before she even opens her mouth. 

"Laura?" Her voice is a bit kinder, if still tight with stress. Mostly, Paul thinks, because she, too, has locked onto her dazed expression. Even with all the canisters jettisoned, they're still trying to mitigate explosions. 

Sasha steps around the table to kneel by her chair, her voice not unkind. "Did Spencer maybe say anything about Dubai? Or Deanna or anything?"

Blinking several times, like she's trying to wake herself up, Laura shakes her head. She keeps her eyes trained forward, though, like she's not registering much of anything at all.

"Soon as we're done here, gonna have to tear the whole damned ship apart," Daryl's muttering to Dwight.

"Shit, you thinking there are more?"

"I _wasn't_ ," Daryl gestures angrily at the note that Carl's passing to Dwight. "

"Yeah," Mitch says. "If we hadn't stopped looking, we would've found this one. No telling, right now, what else we're missing."

They've got a point, not that Paul can muster any effort to chime in. Right now, he's honestly too furious to think. 

Spencer'd had a plan this whole time, putting the whole crew, the whole _mission_ at risk, and it hadn't even been _his_ plan. He'd been doing the Council's bidding- or at least Deanna's, which apparently amounts to the same thing. 

That much isn't a surprise, but even after everything...

...they'd discussed it, in secret.

They'd _decided_ , in secret, that the colony was only worth the dirt on the wrong side of the membrane, and even that, they'd considered more valuable than the people inside. 

_Test subjects_ , Deanna'd called them. Only when last Paul had checked, they'd all been citizens. 

"I know it's rough," Sasha reassures Laura, leaning in close to block her view of their increasingly agitated crew mates. "But if he mentioned anything- this Dr. Jenner, or even just, like, _Dubai_ , that could help clear things up."

_Fuck_ Spencer, he decides. Fuck Spencer and Deanna and the whole fucking Council and NATOPS.

Realizing that Laura's shaking her head, muttering under her breath and clearly working up to something, Paul schools his expression into something less obviously furious than he's feeling. Scaring her even more isn't going to help anything, right now. 

Sasha's still trying, though. 

"It's okay," She says, her hand on Laura's back. "None of this is your fault." 

For some reason, _that_ particular reassurance makes Laura's eyes flash wild, the whites as wet and bright as her suddenly bared teeth. 

"He never even checked the goddamned canisters," she says, and begins, horribly, to laugh.


	46. Chapter 46

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 11:50_

__Daryl only gets a quick glance at Laura's face before she goes down, and immediately he wishes he hadn't. She looks _possessed_ , even once he and Mitch manage to haul her to her feet and start moving her back to her quarters._ _

__All the way, she's twitching so violently that she's stumbling over her own feet, nearly thrashing out of their grip more than once. He wouldn't put it past her to start biting, but at least the laughter's starting to subside, giving way to a hoarse, rasping giggle._ _

__The manic rictus grin's still there, though, and her blown-out eyes don't seem to register anything at all as they try maneuvering her towards the bed; it must be where she wants to go anyway, because she dives out of their grip and curls up with their back to them, back heaving and fingers twitching unpredictably._ _

__He's never seen Mitch looking this goddamned uneasy, as he tries, failingly, to get Laura's attention. He prods at shoulder, repeats her name with the most forced calm Daryl's ever heard. Eventually, Sasha slips into the room; Paul's trailing behind her with an unopened sedative patch pinched gingerly between his fingers._ _

__Honestly, though, if they're going that route, it looks too small to cover for everything that's going on._ _

__\---_ _

__It takes a few minutes for the sedative to take effect; in the meantime, Daryl rights the upturned bench and tries to think._ _

__Shit hits people at weird times. Makes them go all sorts of crazy. That's what he's been telling himself ever since his name showed up on Spencer's suicide note. Hell, even before that, when the simmering bullshit in his own head decided to boil over and ruin _everything_. And now it's happening all over again with Laura, now, and he's been too busy keeping his head down that he hadn't seen any of it coming. _ _

__Sasha and Paul are whispering in the hallway; when eventually they do step into the commons, Mitch isn't with them._ _

__Sasha looks dazed. Paul's jaw is set so tight that he's liable to crack a tooth. Neither of them seem too interested in sitting down at the table again._ _

__Carl's the first one to ask. "So what happened, is she okay?"_ _

__"Dunno," Sasha lets out a deep breath. "Mitch is keeping an eye her."_ _

__Dwight scratches his throat before crossing his arms over his chest. "Did she say anything else?"_ _

__"We don't even know what she meant by what she said in the first place." Paul glances at him, forestalling so plainly that it's almost insulting._ _

__"I don't know," Daryl tries to keep the snarl out of his voice; he's not sure if it works. "Sounds to me like she was sayin' she knows more about the rubidium than she's been lettin' on."_ _

__To his credit, Paul doesn't deny it._ _

__"I heard it too, which is why we need to _wait_ before we start deciding that we know what the hell is going on." Sasha sets her shoulders as she reads the room. "Soon as she wakes up, Mitch is gonna talk to her. And I'm thinking, Paul? You should sit in."_ _

__"Fine."_ _

__\---_ _

___Monday, 08/29/2194, 14:28_ _ _

____He gets it, he really does. Why it's got to be him._ _ _ _

____He's been spending more time with Laura than anyone else, these last few weeks, and he's not above her in the chain of command. They're friends- not that Mitch isn't, of course- but she could probably use another person she trusts on her side._ _ _ _

____Whether or not he wants to admit to trusting _her_ is another topic entirely. _ _ _ _

____The fact that he's been thinking in angry circles about it for the past several hours, though, seems to indicate that he had. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't be this fucking anxiously disappointed._ _ _ _

____Which isn't fair. But it's what he's got to work with, because best case scenario, Laura's going to wake up, in full control of her faculties, able to explain that she'd been freaking out. That she'd spoken out of context, that there was nothing to worry about beyond the stress that had put her in that headspace to begin with._ _ _ _

____The worst case scenario, though, is what they need to be ready for. And it's almost funny, because right now, the only thing that Paul's _trusting too easily_ is Daryl's tendency to dangerously overreact, where the canisters are concerned, and with Laura being stretched this thin, that's the last thing they need. _ _ _ _

____There are muffled voices next door, several hours too soon. Mitch's and Laura's, talking too quietly to hear._ _ _ _

____He's pulling his shoes on before Mitch knocks on his door._ _ _ _

____"She's awake."_ _ _ _

____"Already?"_ _ _ _

____"Yeah. And she wants to talk _now_."_ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

____Laura looks pale and tired, and red around the eyes, but at least the terrifying _whatever that was_ seems to have receded. _ _ _ _

____"Hey Paul."_ _ _ _

____"Hey," he says, deciding that sitting down on the narrow swath of floor seems less creepy than looming over her, and less invasive than sitting next to her, though she's already made room. "How're you feeling?"_ _ _ _

____"Cloudy, a little tired." She looks over at Mitch. "But clear. I can do this."_ _ _ _

____It's said with enough certainty that the lat dwindling hope that this was all going to be cleared up easily evaporates. And she wilts, too, looking between the two of them like she's not sure how to proceed, either._ _ _ _

____"Okay. So, I guess, the main thing we're wondering is what you meant. Do you remember what you said?"_ _ _ _

____She closes her eyes, and nods. "Not really the words, but..."_ _ _ _

____"...the intent?" Paul eventually supplies. "You said that Spencer never checked the canisters. What did you mean by that?"_ _ _ _

____"Just. He never knew what he was bringing on board."_ _ _ _

____"But you did?"_ _ _ _

____"Yeah. I just didn't know that _he_ did."_ _ _ _

____"I don't follow."_ _ _ _

____She laughs- it's quick, and doesn't lead to anything- and scratches the injection site. "Yeah, I guess not. It's kind of a long story."_ _ _ _

____"Think we'd better hear it," Mitch says, and there, right then, the remnants of her grin drop from her face entirely._ _ _ _

____"Okay," she says, taking a breath. "Okay."_ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

____"Back on the colony, I worked logistics dockside between missions, same's everyone. It sucks, but there you go. I was doing inventory in long-term storage one night when I heard Deanna and Negan in the unit next door. It sounded like they were doing some kind of handoff."_ _ _ _

____Mitch nods, like he understands this, and then looks at Paul. "Not unheard of, the black market bein' what it is."_ _ _ _

____"Right," Laura continues. "But it had been so long since a shipment had come through that it seemed really weird. Everything that could've been traded would have been by then. So then I started wondering if it was a hookup. Heard a bit more, and started listening on purpose. I, uh, got a recording of it, if you want to hear."_ _ _ _

____"You do?"_ _ _ _

____"Yeah. Desk drawer, the blue bag. Comms unit."_ _ _ _

____Paul's closest, so he reaches over, finding it immediately and pulling it out. He passes it over to Mitch._ _ _ _

____"Recording people without their consent,"_ _ _ _

____"Isn't shit compared to what they were saying," she finishes, wrapping her fingers around the back of her neck and pressing in._ _ _ _

____With a glance at Paul, Mitch holds it up to his hear, and begins to listen. It feels like ages, and Paul can't glean much of anything at all off of his face, even as the comms unit's passed back to him._ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

____"-came through on _my_ end of the bargain, and you owe me some answers."_ _ _ _

____There's a long pause before Deanna's voice, thin, muted and tinny, replies._ _ _ _

____"I told you, you'll know what you need to know, when you need to know it."_ _ _ _

____"You're setting me up to walk out of here with a dozen blasters. You having second thoughts? Because usually, people like you, second thoughts tend to mean plan b's, and I am _mighty_ interested in making sure that-"_ _ _ _

____"Oh, stop _posturing_ ," Deanna says, her tone sharp. "There's been no change. What do you want to know?"_ _ _ _

____"First off, 'cause I'm just _dying_ of curiosity, here. What the fuck's with the dirt?"_ _ _ _

____"This dirt is buying a war and our survival all at once. Your payment is, in part, the tools to make that happen."_ _ _ _

____"I'm listening." Negan says it with the tone that anyone else would've used to call bullshit._ _ _ _

____"Ag and the Techniki are about to be rendered obsolete. Our entire way of life needs to change, and there will be resistance to that. I don't predict that it will happen quietly or peacefully- that's where you come in- but I would prefer that it doesn't come at the cost of too many lives. If the colony is to survive when Earth comes calling, we'll need an unresisting populace living under the guidance of secure leadership. Unfortunately, to cultivate that garden, it requires some weeding. We simply have no other choice."_ _ _ _

_____Christ,_ Paul thinks. She sounds like she's addressing the Council. _ _ _ _

____"I gotta say," Negan's replying. "I _am_ impressed. I never saw you as the warmongering type."_ _ _ _

____"Quite the opposite. I'm trusting you to stop it before it happens." Another pause, and then. "Now. It won't do for us to be seen leaving together-"_ _ _ _

____\---_ _ _ _

____The recording cuts out, and Paul blinks, trying to track his way into the conversation that's happening here and now._ _ _ _

____"I wanted to take it to NATOPS, but figured I'd need proof. A day or so later I broke into her unit, and took a look, not that it looked like much of anything at all. Found the rubidium samples, figured them for evidence. Snagged some empties from the geo labs, filled them up over in Ag, and switched them out."_ _ _ _

____"So. You brought the rubidium on board, and didn't say shit about it." Mitch shakes his head, letting out a sigh. "And Spencer? Were you working with him, then?"_ _ _ _

____"I hid it on board during an inspection sweep. I was going to tell you all, as soon as we lifted off, but then Spencer showed up on board. Knew I couldn't trust him- he must've had some sort of agenda- so I figured keeping it close would be the safer route._ _ _ _

____"So what, you decided to go the Mata Hari route?"_ _ _ _

____"Actually, yes." She takes a breath, as if to defend it, but then shakes her head. "Anyway, _then_ the fire happened in the infirmary."_ _ _ _

_____Yes, because you'd decided to line the walls with fucking rubidium_._ _ _ _

____"I never meant for any of you to get hurt."_ _ _ _

____"So why didn't you say something then?"_ _ _ _

____"If I had, we'd have no way to prove to NATOPS that Deanna and Negan were starting a war, because that proof would've been sent right through the airlock."_ _ _ _

____"Proof like _that_ , we could've figured something out."_ _ _ _

____"Yeah, well, _instead_ we figured out that NATOPS was planning on trashing the colony anyway. And those fucking samples, hauling them along like that, I was just doing Deanna's dirty work for her."_ _ _ _

____Paul frowns. "I don't follow."_ _ _ _

____"Deanna was using Negan to wear everyone down," Mitch says, his mouth twisting on the words like they're sour. "Weeding out anyone who'd put up a fight. Use the Saviors to terrorize the populace enough that when NATOPS appears, guns in hand, they're seen as _actual_ saviors."_ _ _ _

____"It's sick," Laura says; Paul follows her sad gaze to the spot on Mitch's shoulder where his rank insignia used to be. "But there's a logic to it."_ _ _ _

____"Not the kind we signed up for, though."_ _ _ _

____"No." She seems to be flagging. Given the amount of sedative still in her system, they probably should've have even been attempting this conversation in the first place. She takes a shuddering breath and continues. "Anyway. Yeah. When we found out about NATOPS, I moved the canisters. Hid them downstairs." Her breath hitches. "I figured I could jettison them the next time I was on garbage duty." Her hands go up to her eyes; Paul uses the opportunity to glance up at Mitch, who nods back. They know the rest, even if they don't know what to _do_ with it, and she's starting to fray at the edges. _ _ _ _

____She doesn't see this, though. She just keeps talking._ _ _ _

____"And then Daryl found it, and it was all coming out, and Spencer, if he hadn't already put it together, he was about to, and I just. Panicked."_ _ _ _

____They've talked about this, more than once. "Laura, hey," Paul gets to his knees, touches her arm, hoping that she'll pull her hand down from her face. "It wasn't your fault."_ _ _ _

____Her shoulders twitch; he thinks she might be peering at him between her fingers, but her words come out in sobs._ _ _ _

____"Which part? The one where I gaslit him into thinking he was the one responsible? Or the part where I snuck into our room and wrapped that belt around his neck?"_ _ _ _


	47. Chapter 47

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 18:00_

Fixin' dinner's more about the noise and distraction it provides than anything, but with the basil Carl brings up from downstairs, they're able to throw together something vaguely resembling pesto. Daryl's never been picky where food's concerned, but between the powdered garlic and the rice noodles and the powdered approximation of cheese, it seems like the usual _better than nothing_ levels of terrible, so he sets the bowl out on the table Carl pings Dwight to get him up here to eat. 

Paul, Sasha and Mitch file into the room just as they're sitting down, looking predictably miserable and wary. They've been sequestered in Mitch's quarters for the past hour and a half, trying to figure out what they're going to say, how they're gonna spin it, like the rest of them haven't figured this shit out already. 

Whatever their plan had been might've fallen apart the moment that inert canister had, but Laura's been working with Spencer this whole fucking time. 

Pesto ain't enough for this shit. He grabs the opened bottle of whiskey from their dwindling kitchen supply, and brings it out as well, though nobody makes a move to dish up, to pour or anything. They all just kind of sit there and stare at Mitch, waiting for him to tell them what's going on.

And then he does, and it's worse- _so_ much worse- than Daryl's been thinking. 

\--- 

_Monday, 08/29/2194, 18:45_

Back on the Colony, Deanna and Negan had been working together to cut down any possible resistance before NATOPS could arrive with an even less surgical strike. And it makes sense, because they've seen that letter now. Deanna'd fucking _courted_ NATOPS with that letter, even inviting them to use their people as test subjects. 

But Laura hadn't known all of that when she'd decided to steal the rubidium and take it back to Earth as evidence that the Council was corrupt, Sasha explains. She'd known Negan and Deanna were up to no good, she'd suspected Spencer was in on it, and she'd tried to do something about it. 

Her heart was in the right place. Mitch and Sasha assure them of this fact no less than five times. 

Paul says nothing; he hasn't _said_ anything since he came into the room. He's just been sitting there, arms tight to his sides, glowering at the congealing bowl of pesto.

As far as Laura's heart being the right place goes, though, that's a little fucked. If she's storing unstable chemicals in walls and in planters, or getting into bed with Spencer the way she had, she's got no fucking clue what a _right place_ looks like. From the eye rolling and sneering comin' from his left, at least Carl seems to agree. 

Their reasoning doesn't wash up completely, though, until Mitch starts talking them through Spencer's last night alive. Mercifully, he skips over the altercation in the commons, doesn't mention Daryl's part in it at all, he just picks up the story from when Spencer'd been locked into his quarters. 

Laura'd snuck in that night, after everyone was asleep. She'd found him drunk, passed out in his quarters. She'd suffocated him with a pillow, managed to shoulder his bulk up into the belt she'd secured to the top bunk, and she'd faked his suicide note, Daryl's name and everything.

"I'm not saying this to excuse her behavior," Sasha says, "but she's been living with this ever since."

"So have we, and so _hasn't_ Spencer." Dwight shoots Daryl a _can you fuckin' believe this_ kind of look before grimacing, holding up his heads, and trying again. "Sorry. I get that she feels bad. That's good, but it's not a pass."

Right now, Laura's degrees of guilt aren't at the top of the list of Daryl's concerns, either. 

The night it happened, he'd been one thin wall away. If he hadn't been so distracted by his own bullshit- _fuck_ , if he hadn't been so busy burning bridges with Paul, they might've heard something. 

He risks a glance over to find that Paul hasn't moved an inch since he sat down; if he's even registering any of the conversation, he's not letting on. 

Mitch is cutting in, talking to Dwight because Sasha looks like she's ready to burn some bridges of her own. 

"We're not saying that it is," he says, casting a worried glance in Paul's direction. "But the fact remains, we're a small crew, and she's the only pilot outside of myself that has gone through proper landing training. Like it or not, we still need her."

"So what," Carl leans forward. "We're just going to spend the next month trapped on a ship with a _murderer_?"

Sasha turns her irritation towards him instead. "Carl-" 

"I'm serious. Fucked up as she is, how do we know that she's not gonna take us out with her on a botched landing attempt? I vote we put her out the airlock and be done with it." 

" _Carl_."

But he's on a roll, leaning into it now that he's got everyone's attention. "I'm just saying, you all might be able to sleep with one eye open, but I don't have one to spare."

Mitch looks like he's going to bust a vein, and Dwight and Sasha are glaring at each other in silent disagreement that Daryl can't quite place, so it's on him to intercede. "You volunteering to play executioner when it comes time?"

"No, just-"

"Nobody else is either, so cool it." 

It shuts Carl up, though he's not appeased in the least. At least he's got different a target for his attitude, now. Better Daryl than everyone else, far as that shit goes. 

_Tuesday, 08/30/2194, 00:00_

Shit hits people at weird times, and it's probably too soon to tell how all this is really gonna land, but Daryl's got so far is this: Laura used him as a scapegoat when she murdered Spencer. That's fucked up, and he's pissed. He's known that for hours, but his brain's latched onto it too firmly to even try sleeping.

It's midnight, exactly, when Daryl looks at the clock, four zeroes strung out, null and void. Outside his quarters, he can hear that almost everybody else is still up, too. Maybe Laura's one of them, now, though Mitch had seemed sure she'd be pretty out of it the rest of the night. 

Mitch had decided, eventually, that while nobody felt comfortable giving her free rein with the controls, they still needed her on the bridge. She'll be able to take sensor monitoring shifts whenever the drive's on autopilot, long as she obeys the on-call protocols. 

It hadn't just been pragmatism, regardless of how much they'd tried to skirt the issue: Connor had been rough enough, and that had been an accident. Spencer's death had been a suicide, up until it hadn't been. Shoving Laura out through the airlock, well, today's roller coaster is evidence enough that killing people doesn't sit well, even with murderers. 

He'll probably run into her tomorrow. It'll probably be awful. 

She'd let him believe he'd pushed Spencer to suicide. He doesn't know how to get past that. It ain't like the two of them have been talking all that much, lately. Since Spencer died- since the night she _killed_ him- the only person she's really been talking to is Paul.

And it ain't Daryl's business, really, to be worrying about it. And this notion that he keeps circling back to- to go up to the bridge and see how Paul's doing- is probably unwelcome as hell. 

While everyone else had been sittin' around trying to figure out what the fuck they were gonna do with and about Laura, he'd been frozen, staring off into space. Kind of blank, kind of angry, like either he was aware of nothing at all, or too furious about _all_ of it to even blink. Dwight'd had to elbow him more than once just to get his attention; it had never held for more than a moment, and it had never been followed up with any kind of response. 

Trouble is, from what Daryl's seen, that kind of thing was the shit Paul was usually _good_ at. Balancing the logistics with the _too-miserable-to-contemplate_ and the _better than nothing_. Everyone, Daryl's pretty sure, had spent the whole evening waiting for him to snap out of it and start chiming in with some sort of plan. 

Instead they'd had Dwight and Sasha picking their words too carefully, trying so hard not to pick a fight with one another that they'd both given up on saying more than "I don't know, what do you think?" whenever a question was raised. In the end, it had come down to Mitch, looking ready to bust a vein, pulling rank and making the call.

The vein in his forehead had mostly been due to Carl's repeated suggestions that they march Laura out the airlock. Daryl'd made some efforts to head him off; pointing out that Rick wouldn't stand for that kind of talk had been enough to send him storming off to his room without touching his dinner. 

At least it had spared them all the aggravation and repercussions of making it an order, but the fact that Carl was even suggesting that shit had _not_ been a good sign. 

The fact that Daryl could see his point probably wasn't any better. Not too long ago, after all, he'd been ready to Spencer out the very same airlock. And if his head hadn't gone that way- if his first instinct hadn't been to go full Dixon- a _lot_ of things would be a lot easier, right now. 

Like all this shit with Paul. 

If Daryl'd managed to keep himself in check- if he'd _explained_ it better, or hadn't spent the last few weeks skulking around like such an asshole- pulling him aside to see if he's managed to shake whatever fog he'd been stuck in at dinner would be a viable option. 

It's not, though, because he'd fucked up.

Three weeks ago, Daryl'd accused him of trusting people too easily. And then Spencer had died, and Paul had started spending all his time with Laura. He'd made more of an effort to drag her out of her misery than anyone else had. Checking in on her during bridge shifts. Getting her down to the hold to exercise, or to work on the garden. Sometimes they cooked meals together, or just hung out and talked. 

Daryl doesn't know everything they talked about, but judging by the fallout, Laura hadn't quite gotten around to mentioning the blood on her hands. And as much as she'd fucked with Daryl's head, Paul's the one with a month's worth of murderer's conversations to unravel in his head. 

So Daryl should probably just leave him to it. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 08/30/2194, 13:27_

Mitch had been up a while ago to lock Laura out of the controls, explaining that she'd still be taking shifts monitoring the long range sensors during autopilot. 

"We're going to need to work up an on-call list so someone can get up here and take over if she sees anything."

Paul had nodded, adding it to the queue for tomorrow, not particularly surprised. They'd tried locking their suspects in their quarters before, and that hadn't ended well. 

"When is she going to be up and about?"

"Second round of meds will wear off at some point, . I'm bunking in her quarters to keep an eye on her, which is probably going to be uncomfortable as hell." Mitch had let out a dry laugh; if he'd been in a better mood, he might've joined in with some sort of sympathy. "I'll talk to her when she wakes up, but I'm guessing it'll be a while before she decides to show her face."

Hoping would be later, rather than sooner, Paul had finally managed to dig down and find some kind of attention span. "How're you doing with all this?"

"Not great. Worked with her for years. Keep hoping I'm gonna wake up tomorrow, find out that this is all some big stress and sedative induced misunderstanding."

"Maybe things will look better come sunrise?"

"Ain't no sun up here," Mitch had grumbled, starting to make his way down. "Gonna wake up to the same fucking shit."

\--- 

He's been trying for hours, but Paul's really not sure what he's going to say the next time he sees her.

She'd played him, she'd played _all_ of them, and the only reason they know it is because she'd decided to _let_ them. Maybe her conscience had made a sudden reappearance. Maybe it had been the sedatives, so close on the heel of her panic attack, creating a perfect storm. 

He's worked out that it'll start with _why_ , but he has no idea how to finish the rest of the question. Why she did... pretty much every single thing that she did: the canisters, the lying. Hanging Spencer up on that belt, writing the note.

And afterwards, the last two weeks, why did she let him think he was helping? _Had_ he helped, and if so, had he been helping her, or her grieving widow act? 

They'd talked about Earth, about the Colony. About the engines and the duty roster and whether it was worth planting another batch of kale. They'd talked about Earth, the dozen ways it could go right and the thousand different ways things could go wrong. She'd told him about her family, and about Spencer, and maybe it had all been lies, but he'd told her about Daryl, even about his mom, and most of that had been true. 

Mostly, he thinks, he just wants to ask her _what the fuck_ , but he doesn't know what kind of answer he wants. He doesn't even know for sure that he wants _true_ ones. 

By comparison, Daryl standing on the ladder, asking if he can come up, seems comparatively simple. 

\---

"Hey." Daryl hesitates in the cramped space behind the seats before sitting down at the copilot's station.

"Hey. What's up?"

Daryl shrugs. "Uh. Just wanted to see if you're all right."

"Why wouldn't I be?" He tries for sarcasm, as focused as he is on not reacting, but it comes out too sharply. 

It hangs there, filling the cabin, echoing back loud and pathetic.

"Fair point. This sucks."

What's _pathetic_ , as it turns out, is the the tension uncoiling in his chest, like Daryl's commiseration means that fucking much. "Hey, on the bright side, I guess you were right," he says, just in case he'd come up here for an _I told you so_.

Maybe to his credit, Daryl doesn't pretend to ask for clarification. "Not your fault people are shit." 

Fuck. This isn't helping. Or maybe it is, and that's the problem. 

He sneaks a glance at Daryl in the reflection; catches him working that hangnail again. Then he gets caught looking, and twitches his eyes back to the front. 

Another few light years go by before Daryl clears his throat. "Um. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For sayin' that shit. Freaking out like I did."

The past few days, he'd thought they'd be heading towards this, whether due to cooler heads prevailing, or simply having bigger things to worry about. It's academic, now. If he tells himself it's a post-mortem, he doesn't have to care about the answer.

"Why did you?" 

"Had some bad shit in my head," he says, eventually, addressing the control panel more than anything. "Didn't want to be doing what I was doing, didn't want you jumping in the crossfire."

"I might've been able to help."

Daryl nods. Probably just confirmation that he's been heard, but he doesn't argue, either. When Paul glances over at him, he looks like he's still chewing it over. 

"Hey," Paul tries, once the silence's stretched out, more peacefully than he'd been expecting. "Can we just call a truce or something?"

There's startled confusion meeting his eyes in the windshield's reflection, now; he's a little surprised that it's Daryl's. "Huh?"

"I don't really have the energy to be pissed off at more than one person at a time." Maybe it's too soon and maybe he's _trusting too easily_ again, but it's late, and he's tired, and there hasn't been a lot of easy on offer lately. "And no offense, I kind of need to save what I do have for people who murder people in their sleep, call it a suicide, and pin the blame on someone else."

"Yeah, I hear you." Daryl actually cracks a grin, then straightens up. Paul can feel him staring. "And yeah. Uh, that'd be good."

Paul extends reaches out, and they shake hands. If his eyes land on Daryl's mouth, if he briefly contemplates the notion of tugging him closer and seeing what happens, it's just the moment, some vestige of something that hadn't quite had the chance to become habit. 

Daryl settles back into his seat, eyes landing on the job queue that he's still got up on the secondary screen. "You forgot that she sabotaged the ship, too." 

"Accidentally. And no, I hadn't forgotten."

"Accidentally almost got you killed, and she's been lyin' to everyone from the start."

"Yeah." He's been trying to ignore that, to separate it all out, all evening. Deliberate murder's one thing. Putting them all at risk the way she had is another. And while her reasons for doing it, now that he knows what they are, don't really justify the lengths that she'd gone to, they do open up a whole nest of complications as far as what they're going to have to do next. 

They'll have to turn her in to the authorities; in this case, NATOPS has jurisdiction. For all he knows, they're the bigger enemy, but they're also the one they have to negotiate with. Not letting NATOPS know that they were aware of their plans for the rubidium mining had become essential to their diplomatic approach. Handing Laura over could come across as a show of good faith, but the moment her motivations were discovered, they'd be tipping their hand in the worst way possible. 

By comparison, what anyone feels about the whole situation doesn't really matter.

He glances down at the job queue. Locating and disposing of any remaining canisters is second on the high priorities list, along with every post-relay systems check and update.

"Seems overly optimistic, flagging that as completed."

Daryl nods, allowing the change of subject. "Clear it or don't. Ain't like we won't be keepin' an eye out either way."

"Are you still planning on tearing every wall panel from the hold to the bridge?"

Daryl smirks lazily over at him. "Man's gotta have hobbies."


	48. Chapter 48

_Friday, 9/05/2149, 18:47_

If Laura wants to hide out in her quarters instead of joining them for meals, that's fine by him. As strained as everything might be right now, it's _worse_ when she's in the room. She's quiet, keeps her head down. Listens to the conversations, when anyone manages to scrounge one up, even smiles if someone actually hits on something amusing, but that's been the limit of her participation. There ain't no telling what she's thinking, and the edge it sets everyone else on is all too clear. 

Two, maybe three nights ago, she'd actually joined them for dinner and the mere act of passing her the seitan had left him convinced that everyone was watching him condoning a murder. Right now, Mitch looks to be having similar thoughts as he dishes up another bowl and takes it down the corridor, all without meeting anyone's eyes. 

"Why's he even bother?" Carl doesn't even look up from his plate once Mitch leaves. 

Daryl looks at Sasha in hopes that she'll field this one, immediately feeling like an asshole for doing so. As good as she is with people, and as much as she's deliberately taken on the role of being the ship mediator, this whole situation's got her visibly wrung out, same as everyone.

"Her starving to death isn't going to help anything," Daryl eventually says, shoveling another mouthful of rice and beans into his mouth. Sasha's better at this shit, but she'd also probably try reminding him of how guilt's a funny thing, or there's no telling what another death on board would bring with it, and he doubts Carl wants to hear it again. "Another few weeks, we'll get through it, and it won't be our problem any more, all right?"

She'll either get help or arrested- probably some combination of the two. Mitch had said she was planning on turning herself in, though Daryl ain't really sure he believes it. He's been out on the Colony long enough that the notion that Earth would consider Spencer's death their problem is a little strange, even though they're sure to have some kind of jurisdiction, especially over an enlisted NATOPS pilot turned traitor like Laura. And then there's the fact that when it all comes closing in, people tend to run when they've got the chance. Merle had made it all the way to Atlanta, trying to outrun that warrant for the mushrooms before they'd caught up with him; he'd earned himself another three months just for the trip. 

Laura ain't Merle, though. As much as he'd like for her to just explain just what the fuck her thought process had been, she's got more sense than he had. Enough sense, anyway, to realize that even if she is looking to make a run for it, there's no place to go. 

Carl nods, heaving out a sigh, and goes back to picking at his food. Nobody else picks up the conversation and the silence is starting to stretch out. And honestly, if Laura's decided that she doesn't want to grace them with her not particularly welcome presence this evening, they should maybe be taking the win while they can. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 9/10/2149, 23:02_

It was going to hit eventually. He's sensed it coming for days, now, but he's managed to stave it off.

The ship's never been particularly comfortable, but it's never been this particular kind of unbearable before. It's the same damned walls and the same damned floors and none of it changes and there's never any _light_ but he can hear conversations from three rooms away and they're all about the same things. What are they going to do about Laura. What are they going to do when they land. Are they okay, are they going to _be_ okay. 

They've been trying to come up with a plan, but there are just too many unknowns. Who's in power, what interest NATOPS still has in the colony. What's more valuable, the people or the rubidium. 

Where they're going to be _landing_ , or if they'll be welcome when they try. 

They don't know who they'll be negotiating with, or when, or where. With the Ambition's destruction, they don't know the extent of Earth's logistical capabilities.

What he's starting to know, though, deep down in his twisting gut, is this. Paul's going to be the one doing the talking. 

It _has_ to be him. 

Mitch might be their captain, but once they land, his rank alone won't be enough to get him to the table, and Sasha doesn't even have that much going for her. When it comes down to it, they're lucky that Earth doesn't know that technically, he's captaining a stolen ship. 

Paul, on the other hand, is family to the Colony's Governor, as Mitch has pointed out more than once. They _don't_ know that Gregory's dead, though. All they have is what went through in the databurst: that Paul's been spent to speak on his behalf. 

They don't know about Spencer, either, apart from his being a member of the crew who hadn't survived the trip. 

They don't know about his murder, yet. 

But they will. Laura's intending on turning herself in, and Mitch, when it's just him, Sasha and Paul, has sworn that he'll enforce it if she balks. To do otherwise- to say nothing- would be to condone what she's done. It might even be enough to splinter the crew entirely, when they need to be ready to present a unified front. 

At least if Laura's owning up to what she's done, nobody else will feel like they have to bring the accusations forward on their own.

But either way, the story will come out. Not just the murder, but her motives. They have to prepare that NATOPS will discover the full extent of what they themselves know. 

It all comes back to the rubidium. Spencer's reasons for being on board, and Laura's reasons for killing him. Deanna's secret deal with NATOPS, Negan's part in preparing for it, and how unprepared the Council was to handle anything of this sort. 

When all _that_ comes out, they'll no longer be able to pass themselves off as official representatives from Colony One. Instead, they'll be a conspiratorial cabal seeking to subvert not only the Colony's authority, but Earth's as well. 

They'll be showing up on a stolen ship to rub their faces in it, and Paul will be the one doing all the talking. 

Which means it would be nice if he could find an angle, or even an argument. If he could even convince himself that they've got any chance in hell of pulling this off. 

It's probably not a good idea to get drunk right now, he just can't think of a good reason not to. 

His bottle's empty before he's even halfway there. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 9/11/2149, 07:27_

"You good?"

Blearily, Paul blinks up from the cup of coffee he's been staring at. It's the middle of the morning after his overnight shift, sure, but he usually doesn't go around with his hair in knots like that once he's up and about. "Woke up, couldn't get back to sleep." He closes his eyes, stretching his arms back over his head, twisting his spine. "What d'you have going on?"

Daryl ducks into the kitchen and helps himself to a cup; the coffee's still hot. "Starting to square things away. At least getting ready so it's not all piled up when the time comes."

"Good idea."

It is, which means he should probably get on it instead of dithering with the fucking infirmary wall panels. He hadn't meant to, for all his joking about it. It's just the wiring for the comms that has started buzzing ran through along the corridor-side wall, and one panel had led to the next. At least there hadn't been anything to find besides a little dust and a bandage wrapper. Given the looks of it, though, Paul doesn't seem to interested in going down to the hold to inspect the progress he hadn't actually made. 

He's still got a while before his afternoon bridge shift starts, though, so now's as good a time as any.

\--- 

_Tuesday, 9/16/2149, 13:13_

"I don't like it," Dwight grumbles, his eyes glued to the diagnostics system as the floor shudders beneath them. 

Mitch and Laura have been running calculations all week, the two of them so intent on their incomprehensible maps and figures that looking over their shoulders at their screens feels as pointless as it had the first few weeks out from the colony. It's become routine for Mitch- and sometimes Laura- to interrupt Paul's shifts two or three times, just to check in on their headings. 

After dozens of incremental slowdowns and course corrections, they'd finally dropped out of the jump lane and entered Earth's solar system sometime last night. 

Even at sublight, they'd crossed through the orbital paths of Eris and Pluto at speeds Paul'd been glad he'd slept through. Still, the sublight's rougher than the jump drive, and it's _unnerving_ , the way the ship feels like it's going to shake apart under their feet. 

"You'll get used to it, don't worry," Mitch had told them, when the vibrations had jolted everyone awake to meet the same panic. His assurances would've sat a lot better if he hadn't immediately followed it up with, "Save _that_ for the astroid belt." 

They're clearing Jupiter's empty orbit right now, heading straight for it. They don't have much longer to wait. 

\--- 

"All right, everyone, it's time to seal up and strap in." Mitch announces over the shipwide. "Nothing to worry about, but we'll be skirting the edge of the belt in about ten minutes. Shields are looking good, but the ride'll be choppy. Comms are bounced out to the headsets."

Paul throws the bolts on the kitchen and bathroom before doing the same to the commons. In the corridor by the base of the ladder, Dwight's shaking his hair out of his face and settling the helmet over his head. With just that, the sealsuit, and the compressor, he looks half dressed, but this is all just precaution anyway. 

Paul winds up with hair in his mouth, but manages well enough, and Dwight knocks the side of his helmet once he's finished with the check.

"Seals good, you're all set."

"Thanks." He feels like an idiot, to be honest. It's clumsy, moving in the suit, but it's better than being caught without it. If something goes wrong- and it won't, but it _might_ \- they're going to need to move quickly. Dwight gives him a nod, then pulls the straps out of the wall next to the ladder, staying within easy reach of the bridge. 

Sasha's taking care of the mid-corridor hatch, before he's even completely through it, and smirks when she sees him.

"We're good?"

"All squared away up front. You?"

"Carl's riding it out in mine- got room if you want- and Daryl's in the hold. We've got good coverage."

"Thanks, I'm good."

"Uh-huh."

He rolls his eyes, but shes already ducking back into her quarters; over her shoulder, Carl gives him an enthusiastic wave, grinning like he's having the time of his life. 

It's not routine. He'll give him that much, at least.

\--- 

_Tuesday, 9/16/2149, 13:35_

If they hadn't made such a production of the precautions, he'd probably be feeling better about the whole thing. The suit's uncomfortably hot, but at least the helmet cuts out a lot of the engine noise and most of the gear rattling around in the crates. 

"Three minutes," Laura's voice is in his ear, reassuring until he remembers it shouldn't be, now. 

Daryl finishes getting the gear he's pulled out- just in case- secured, and straps himself into the stabilization strap next to the airlock, briefly contemplating moving inside, though it's a stupid risk. The crates are locked down, the equipment's as as secure as it's going to be. Carl'd bagged up the garden as much as he could to avoid any mess, though if things go that bad, a little dirt and agar isn't going to matter all that much. 

They're good to go. 

He's checking the seal on his helmet, and is starting to fumble the crossbody strap into place when there's a metallic groan off to his right; the door's opening. It takes him a moment to recognize Paul under the helmet. 

_Fucking idiot_ , he thinks, because that's safe, that's allowed. At least he ain't wasting any time dithering before going for the stabilization straps on the other side of the airlock door.

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah." Paul says it like he's shrugging; it's hard to tell under the thick suit that he's working his arms through the straps. "Just taking precautions."

\--- 

Paul gets the straps tightened just as the ship begins to swerve, sharply enough that both of them have to quickly reset their footing.

"Okay, we've hit the belt. Looking good so far," Mitch says. "We'll be out of this in a few minutes, just hang tight."

The floor comes up to meet them as they climb, and the sensation of climbing at speed compresses the bones at his knees and ankles just to the point of discomfort. 

"You good?" 

The wall at his back is vibrating with enough force to rattle his teeth, but Paul grinds out a grin. "Yeah, you?"

"Fuckin' awesome," Daryl grumbles sarcastically; he turns his head to keep an eye on the lockdown crates, which haven't moved yet, but sound like they might. Maybe it's just the contents. 

"You think we're gonna need all this?"

Daryl starts to shake his head, but there's a crash and a dragging sound; off to his left, the exercise bike's fallen over.

"Give it another 20," Mitch is telling Laura, up in the bridge.

"Confirmed," she replies, and the bike begins to make it's surreal way across the floor towards them. 

It shifts direction as the RV undertakes another swooping turn, heading straight for them. With as fast as they're going, there's not much either of them can do to evade it, and so Daryl winds up with the handlebars pressed against his foot. 

"Like a goddamned dog," he mutters.

Sasha, over the comms, sounds concerned. "What's that?"

"Nothing, we're good." Daryl sounds like he wants to laugh, but he's still keeping an eye on the rest of the gear. So far, everything's staying mostly in place. 

Then the lights dim, only for a second.

"The fuck was that?" Sasha's voice. 

"Shield took a hit," Laura informs them. "Did it's job, we're fine."

Dwight's shouting back at her, his voice buzzing on the line. "The power drain-"

"We're _fine_ ," Mitch cuts him off. "Laura-"

"I see it!"

"Everyone hold-"

They're lifting again, so sharply that Paul's coming away from the wall, the centrifugal force pushing him against airlock door, too strong to fight. It's hard to breathe, hard to move his head or concentrate on anything, but he can see the handlebar caught under Daryl's boot twisting. 

The rest of the bike begins to flip over, the base swinging up towards Daryl's helmet.

It only takes a second. There's nothing he can do, nothing _either_ of them can do, fighting this much force, to stop it from happening.

"Shit," Daryl says, just before the heavy base crashes into his face with a sickening crack.

\--- 

Daryl can hear his breath when he lets it out. Figures everyone else probably can, too.

He'd been too startled to notice when they'd turned, but suddenly the bike had fallen clear of him, the handlebar jabbing him in the ankle sharply as it landed. 

The helmet had just been a precaution anyway. And it's already done its job. But now there's a crack- or maybe a scratch- two inches in front of Daryl's eyes, too close to focus on. He tries, though, because not too far past that is Paul, panting as he drags himself up the airlock frame, and reaching out to run his fingers across his mask. 

"All right, we're through," Mitch announces, and Paul drops his hand. "Apologies for the turbulence, everyone all right?" 

"Just peachy," Daryl says, though his neck hurts when he turns to do a scan of the cargo bay. It's mostly all right. Good thing he'd bagged up the garden, though he could've done a better job of it. There's water seeping out all over the floor. The lockdown crates had done what they'd been meant to, though, and there ain't all that much that needs to be set back to rights. 

The bike, though, it's fucked up. The base is fine- and yeah, whoops, turns out that _hadn't_ actually been bolted down like he'd thought- but the mounting's all twisted, crushed under its own weight. 

Paul's already extricated himself from his straps, and Daryl ain't asked him to help, but he's got no energy to fight him off when he starts working his helmet off.

It's fuckin' embarrassing. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 9/20/2149, 12:05_

There's a chime on the comms, but it's not the shipwide ,and it's not his alarm, and he can't quite open his eyes yet to-

"Hey, Paul, you up?"

He wakes so quickly it leaves him feeling nauseas; he stumbles out of bed and presses his face against the cold metal of the wall, willing it to subside, as he opens the channel. "Hey, what's up?"

It's probably only been an hour or two since he passed out. 

"Said you wanted to know when we here," Daryl says, quietly, like _he's_ the one who'd just been dragged out of a dead sleep. "View's good, if you wanna get up here before Laura locks in our orbit."

He doesn't bother with boots or coveralls, just trudges out and up the corridor in his thermals. Sasha's pressed against the window, her coffee steaming the glass as she glances over at him with a wry grin. 

"He woke you up?"

"I told him to," he admits, holding his breath so the smell of coffee doesn't wake him up any more than he needs to be as he looks through the window; they're at the wrong angle to see anything, but there's more blue than black in the nothing outside. 

He has to step aside to make room for Carl to climb down.

"Dude, it's so fucking cool," he says, irritatingly _awake_. "You gotta go see."

He nods, hauling himself up the ladder to the bridge; the light's all wrong, up here, and then, suddenly, it's all right out in front of him. 

_That's Earth_.

"Holy shit."

"Check it out," Daryl's pointing hand is a silhouette against a wide swath of blinding blue and white. "We're coming down over the fuckin' North Pole."

"Only until we find our lane," Laura smiles from the pilot's seat; she's got navigational controls on her screen that barely resemble anything he's used. 

She's _better_ up here on the bridge. Happier, or maybe just easier to deal with. It's not the first time he's noticed it, and the moment he does, he wishes he hadn't. 

In the face of things... everything else is just _small_. Insignificant. 

He doesn't know what he's looking at; it's instinct to glance to the side, try and chase down the edges, but he can only follow the curvature so far, they're that _close_.

He sees ice- maybe snow or just clouds, stares at them long enough to see them move, giving away to blue, and _deeper_ blue, and strange jagged edges of brown and black and green. 

The shapes feel like they should mean something more to him, some kind of sense. And he tries, but he doesn't have the language for it. 

They're just _there_. 

He doesn't know what to make of any of it. Wants to ask Daryl- wants to ask him _something_ \- but speaking doesn't feel right. 

"Fuck," he manages eloquently, after a minute. "It's huge." Alien and strange, too, he nearly adds, but it feels wrong, saying that out loud to people whose home it actually is. 

It's hypnotic, though Laura seems immune enough. She's seen this before, he knows, more than once. 

Somehow, this immense view is something that's possible to get used to. 

"Yeah," Daryl says, and it's jarring, until Paul remembers that he'd spoken first. He doesn't know how long he's been leaning over the co-pilot's seat, just staring. 

They're really _here_ , and he's got no idea how he's going to tear his eyes away. 

"All right," Laura says, after a moment, maybe a year's gone by. "Sorry guys, show's over. Gotta get us into orbit."

Just like that, the spell's broken; that's his cue to leave. He raps on the back of Daryl's seat and heads back down the ladder, feeling his weight shift as the RV sways into it's new path.

When he makes it back to his quarters, he pulls the blanket down from the window. It's too small to see much of anything, even with his face up against the glass, but that blue glow is still there. 

Everything's different, now. He lies back down, closing his eyes as he tries, failingly, to figure out exactly _how_. 

Even with his eyes closed, he can still see it. It shifts, briefly, as he starts to fall asleep, but if it's changing into something else, he's too far under to notice.


	49. Chapter 49

_Monday, 9/22/2149, 18:22_

Another dinner, another crew meeting, a little bit late on account of the maneuvering it had taken them to slip into the orbit they'll be sustaining for the next eight or nine days. 

"So, we've got our landing site," Sasha says, settling down in her seat next to Dwight, actually grinning excitedly for once. "Mitch is just finishing up, up top, I'll let him spring the news."

Paul can't help the laughter; it bubbles out of nowhere. 

It's just...

The thought's been there throughout the whole trip, but it's so _weird_ , suddenly, to be sitting here, the same way they've done for the past several months, to realize that it's happening, and soon: in just over a week they'll be setting down on an alien planet, yeah. But they have a location, a specific _place_.

Mitch hasn't even made it down the steps before Dwight's leaning back in his seat to call out at him. 

"Where are we landing?"

"Macon, Georgia for the landing, then hitching a ride to Atlanta because of it's proximity to DC. According to Ops Control, it was either that or Andhra Pradesh, but they're having construction delays. They gave me this whole line about arranging transport out of India. Honestly, though, I'm thinking the American contingent just wanted the power play."

Daryl, when Paul looks back at him, looks stunned. Angry, too.

"Seriously? _How_?"

"What do you mean, how'd they pick it? I just said-"

"No, I mean, how is it still _operational_? Things weren't looking great last time I was in the area."

"Could just be that things are looking worse elsewhere," Mitch says, grabbing a slice of the pizza Dwight had made and putting it on his plate. "But take the win, Dixon, _Christ_. For all we know, once we land, we're there for god. At least _you're_ heading home."

\--- 

If Paul and Sasha manage to swing the brass around, they're fine. There's no reason to worry. But if they can't...

It had been one thing when NATOPS had seemed like any kind of ally, even with the war going on. And either way, as interested in the rubidium as they are, they might still be interested in making a trip back out to the colony. But Mitch has a point. But if NATOPS ain't fixin' to help, it ain't like they're gonna welcome the crew back on board for the trip. 

...if they can't leave, then they'll be stuck there.

Earth ain't like the colony, with everyone having their jobs and their weekly credits and things to do to fill out their days. It's scrambling to find some means of paying your way, or starving. It's people starving on the wrong side of NATOPS barricades, or scrambling through the bones of dead cities, watching the skies for bombing raids while trying to avoid the SA's IEDs. And that's just the shit that's makes it _through_ the scrubbed NATOPS databursts to be polished for colony consumption. 

Mitch is NATOPS. Whether or not he's got any real allegiance might almost be beside the point, when it comes down to it. You got a place, you do what you have to. 

Paul's quick, his name might carry some weight with the brass, and it's not like there were a whole lot of unemployed engineers running around once the colleges had started shutting down. 

Carl might be able to get into one of the displaced minor programs, where they'll just get him trained up to fight, get him enlisted in the machine the way they've been doing, the past few years. At least he'd be on the right side of the barricades.

Dwight, Sasha and him, though, they're grunts. Might get drafted if NATOPS is desperate enough, but getting shown the door's more likely, assuming they don't all end up in prison, their cells right next to Laura's. 

Sasha's got people somewhere; Dwight might too. And it'd probably be best if they go find them. 

Far as Daryl knows, he's still got his place in the woods, if anyone's still bothering to keep track of ramshackle cabins out in the middle of nowhere; he hadn't gotten a property tax bill in a year now. Best case scenario, the place is overrun with rats and raccoons and Merle's old crew squatting in the living room. 

Only there'll be no Merle, this time. And for as complicated as shit had been with him, getting by on Earth means being a certain kind of bastard, even if you ain't enlisted. That was true before the war, and it's truer now. And while he ain't sure he remembers how to do it the way he'll probably need to, he sure as shit don't want anyone else getting' dragged down into it with him

At some point- some point soon- he's going to have to tell everyone. It ain't right, letting them walk blindly into it the way they're doing. 'Cause like it or not, it's where they're going, and it ain't like he's expecting to find it any better than it had been when he'd left. 

\--- 

"Well, it's got to beat splashing down in the ocean, right?" Paul asks, hoping to shift the mood back to what it should be. 

"They've got a base," Mitch allows. "At least we know they can hold that. And the SA can't be too much of a concern if they've got the capacity for all this."

"Ain't the SA that's the problem," Daryl grumbles. "It's everyone else."

Mitch frowns, and Carl follows suit, asking, "How d'you mean?"

"Just. Fighting's been killing off the cities. Even before I left, people were scramblin' all over and crawlin' up each other's asses tryin' to find a place to be. Atlanta ain't nothin' but barbed wire fences and quick pour concrete. Last I saw, Macon didn't even have the concrete. Nothing to it, and no brass to talk to. Not for what we need to be tellin' 'em."

Paul doesn't have a map, but Daryl's got a point. "Has anyone said anything about a plan for actually _getting_ to Atlanta?"

"Not yet," Laura confirms; there's a momentary pause as everyone takes notice of her, and Mitch takes over. 

"For security reasons, they haven't told us what that part of the plan is. I expect we'll find more when we land, but we can expect military transport at the very least."

"IED road trip," Daryl sneers, shaking his head down at his plate. "Sounds great."

"70 light years through space, and an hour-long _drive's_ going to be a crisis." Sasha, finally fed up, mirrors his tone and shakes her head. "Can we at least have five goddamned minutes to appreciate that we've got a place to land at _all_?"

Daryl's lip curls- just for a moment, but he remains quiet. When Carl starts asking questions about Earth, it's mostly Sasha and Dwight who answer, even before he gets up to leave.

Paul spends the rest of dinner trying to listen to Sasha's story about her trip from Texas to California- he's curious too, after all, and driving that far, crossing that much _land_ seems insane- but he can't really focus. 

He lasts about five minutes before excusing himself, pretending that he doesn't feel everyone's eyes on his back.

\---

_Monday, 9/22/2149, 19:08_

Entering the hold, Paul's careful to shut the door behind him; odds are good nobody upstairs wants to hear whatever's coming next, any more than either of them want to be heard. "You okay?"

Daryl nods, though the glare doesn't leave his face as he busies himself at his workbench, which has moved towards the back of the hold since yesterday. The empty crates that had been piled in its place have been locked down along the side walls of the hold closest to the infirmary. The heavier gear, once they get it repacked, will get locked down closer to the load-in hatch at the back. 

With as much equipment as hes already packed away, Daryl doesn't have much of anything to fidget with. 

"Just. I get that it's bad for morale, or whatever, and I ain't tryin' to be a dick, but it ain't like we didn't know we were flying into a war zone. Pretending like that ain't so ain't gonna stop it from happening." 

"I know," Paul says, planting his feet and crossing his arms. "We'll figure it out."

"When?"

"When we have to. There are too many-"

Daryl points at him. "I swear to god, you say there are too many unknowns, I'm-" he cuts himself off with an angry shake of his head. 

"Believe me, I hear you." Paul keeps his tone light, surveying the cargo bay instead, looking for neutral territory. Talking in circles around it isn't going to get them anywhere they haven't already been- and he's so _tired_ of talking. 

He can't fix this. He doesn't even know why he's trying, other than pathetic fucking habit. 

Nobody's bothered pulling the mat up off the floor, though he hasn't even gone through his forms in weeks and so far as he knows, it hasn't been seeing use from anyone else, either. It's not dusty- they're careful about that- but it's grubby, streaked here and there with old spilled grease. And for some reason the sight of it manages to kick his brain onto a completely different track. 

"Want to spar?"

Daryl glares at the mat like he'd forgotten it existed, and at Paul like he thinks he's crazy. "Huh?"

"I'm serious. You think you're the only one running around wanting to punch something?" 

Daryl actually seems to be contemplating it, too, though he's circumspect when he looks back at him. "Ain't gonna solve anything."

"Doesn't have to," he shrugs, because getting into how worn out and ragged his brain's gotten trying to do just that. For once, he'd just like to do something that isn't _about_ solving any problems. "But it won't hurt anything, either."

"Wanna get the others down here?"

Honestly, not really, though it'd probably do _them_ some good as well. It's why they'd tried making it a regular thing in the first place, after all. 

Somehow, though, he doesn't think that's why Daryl's asking, so he pretends not to understand. "Think they'll just be able to follow the noise."

\--- 

_Monday, 9/22/2149, 20:45_

He's taken more hits than he's landed, and his ribs are still smarting from where Paul'd elbowed him, but otherwise it's all pretty good, though it's probably a little fucked up that this is the most fun he's had in weeks. They've been going at it for a while, now, and yeah. For all the reservations he'd had, and the bad mood he'd been in, he's enjoying the hell out of it. 

Paul's not too picky about avoiding his bruises, but he's starting to figure out that he can't pull off half of that flashy shit if he's in too close, and Daryl's starting to figure out how to use that to his advantage.

He's got his hands up, but Paul's too close to even jab at, so he shoves him back to make room, only Paul catches his wrist, dragging it down like he's going to just pull him to the floor; his left hand's got him by the elbow, though, pinning his arm to his chest as he lunges forward; it's awkward as hell- and kind of ridiculous- so he's laughing and doesn't quite realize how Paul suddenly winds up _behind_ him as they twist around; but when Daryl manages to stagger back up to his feet there's an arm around his throat, and just a hint of pressure. 

This, at least, he knows how to get out of. He knocks his head back- not as hard as he could, but just enough to make him have to adjust his grip- it's enough to grab Paul's arm and drag it away from his windpipe while he rolls his shoulder, pulling him off balance, dragging him around and to the side before releasing him.

Paul takes a few steps to slow himself from stumbling, shaking his head and blinking, but smiling, holding up a hand while he catches his breath in between laughs. Instead of calling it, though, he coughs and says, "You know, if you like jumped up and rolled more, went down further instead of going to the side like that? You'd probably be able to flip me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Wanna try it?"

What he ought to say is _No, tell me why you're so gung-ho about all this shit,_ but he ain't sure Paul wants him to ask. "Pretty sure I ain't gonna volunteer for you to show me that one," he says instead. "Ain't lookin' to go flyin' through the air."

"You should've said so back in May," Paul smirks. "Besides. I meant that you could try throwing me."

Daryl scowls, rolling his eyes as deliberately as he can. "That's a dumbass idea."

"It's a _great_ idea," Paul's beaming, like the adrenaline's going to have him cracking his teeth if he ain't careful. "If it wasn't fun I wouldn't be suggesting it. And I would know, since I've done it before."

"What, in that fancy class of yours?"

"Yep."

Okay, well. 

"Did whoever was throwing you know what they were doing?"

"Yeah, but-"

Exactly. "Cause I don't."

"Well, with an attitude like that, how're you going to learn?" Paul holds up his hands before he can respond. "Okay, okay. But I'm serious. You're like 90 percent of the way there already, I think we could pull it off. And it's more flash than force anyway." When this gets no response, Paul lets out a put-upon sigh. "I mean, we can go back to the boxing if you want, but your bruises are starting to get bruises and-"

"If we try it will you shut the hell up?"

"Maybe." Paul gives a definite nod, but then his face cracks open into a grin.

Daryl's going to regret most of this. Not _this_ , right here, the amused relaxed look on Paul's face, but the rest of it for sure. "All right then." 

\--- 

He positions his feet like Paul tells him to, brings his hands up to grab the arms around his chest and throat like Paul tells him to. Heaves up, puts his chin down and shrugs forward at half speed, like Paul tells him to. It doesn't do much but leave Paul pressed against his back, but he's starting to see where he's going with this. 

"Okay, now do it again, but this time, you're going to go into a crouch. Don't freak out if you start rolling along with it, just let it happen if you don't let go quickly enough, all right?"

"Okay."

He doesn't think it's going to work. The first time he's going too easy and too slow, and still manages to land too hard on his knees. The second time, he's just going too easy and they just kind of stumble into a pile. 

The third time, Paul winds up flat on his back in front of him, looking up at him with wide stunned eyes; he'd felt all the air leaving his lungs as he'd landed. Too hard, if the absolute absence of Paul's promised roll had been anything to judge by.

\--- 

"Shit, are you-" Daryl's crouched over him, looking like he doesn't know whether to check him for injuries or run, but Paul would settle for just having a minute to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him; he closes his eyes and forces his lungs to remember how to work.

Daryl's still there, still worried, so Paul forces an easy grin. "So. I may have forgotten exactly how to roll out of that."

It would probably have sounded funnier if he hadn't had to stop for breath twice before the words were out. 

"No shit. You hurt?"

Just his pride. He shakes his head. 

"Here." Daryl backs up, disappearing from view for a second before reappearing, reaching his hand down. "C'mon."

He could do it on his own. This is easier. He's not _that_ dizzy.

He sits down on the crate Daryl's shoving him towards, and listens to him rummaging around in the lockdown aisle; a moment later there's a towel and a coldpack being held over his shoulder. 

"Thanks."

He's not really sure what to do with the coldpack- nothing really hurts, yet, except for the back of his head, and he doesn't want to freak Daryl out more by drawing any attention to it. The pack's already been activated, though, and it feels good against his shoulder, even if holding it there makes watching Daryl agitatedly pace back and forth across the mat more of an endeavor than it should be. 

"On the plus side," he says, because the whole idea behind this was to have a bit of fun, not whatever it's turning into inside Daryl's head. "Congratulations, you now know how to throw people. Enough to get by, anyhow."

"Know enough not to listen to your dumbass ideas, more like." Daryl nearly grins, but he actually sounds irritated. Either that, or the wicked bruise creeping up from his collarbone is causing him some trouble. 

"What? I'm fine."

"Yeah, well," Daryl waves a hand at him, "sorry all the same." His tone makes it sound like he's repeated it fifteen times already.

"All this was either my idea or an accident," Paul points out, starting to catch on to the fact that they'd left the easy bullshitting back on the mat. "No apologies required from you."

Daryl nods, wiping his face off on his own towel; the sweat's dried off his arms, but they're still worth watching. "Why though?"

The question feels like a trap. "Hm?"

"I mean," Daryl's wiping his hands methodically now, not looking up. "Was this... why'd you suggest all this in the first place?"

"Seemed like a good idea." 

It's not a lie. There _had_ been a huge part of him that had just wanted to lash out, burn some of the bad shit out of his brain. He'd genuinely wanted a distraction. Reminding Daryl that _maybe_ things didn't have to be so goddamned _fraught_ between them would've just been a bonus. But now that the wind's been knocked out of him, it's probably better not to mention it. 

But he's tired of dissembling. And Daryl's watching him like he knows he's full of shit anyway. 

"Know we called a truce and all, but. I just kind of figured it might, I don't know, restore the balance or something."

Daryl moves, and for a moment, Paul thinks he's going to leave. That whatever Paul might've thought to accomplish here, letting _that_ particular cat out of _that_ particular bag has irrevocably blown it. 

Instead, though, Daryl's merely sitting down on the crate next to him, if only so he can lean back and get a better look at the back of Paul's head. "Yeah? How'd that work out for you?"

"Depends. You still want to kick my ass?"

"Don't need to, you took care of that all on your own," Daryl jokes, but goes silent too quickly. 

"Sorry," Paul says. "I mean, mostly, I did just want to spar. It wasn't all about... all that."

Daryl's looking at the floor, pressing at the bruise on his collarbone, and eventually shrugs. "It's okay. I mean. It ain't like I didn't already know you know how to fight."

They might not be on the same page, but at least they're in the same book. That's got to count for something. 

"Actually, it's more about you knowing that you know how to _stop_."

"Huh." 

He knows it's weird, bringing it up like this, bringing it up _at all_. 

And he's probably got a head injury, so he should check in, make sure he's reading this right. 

"Is it okay if we actually just _talk_ about it for a minute?"

Daryl nods. It has the effect of shaking more hair into his face, and Paul's pretty certain it's by design. But he's not leaving, either. So of course, when Paul goes to speak, the words fall right out of his head, and he's all too aware of Daryl watching his attempts to find them. 

"That night, all that shit with Spencer," he beings, not yet knowing where he's going to end. "I knew what I was getting in the way of there. I knew you were freaking the fuck out- that's not what pissed me off. The fact that you flat out told me I was an idiot for trusting you though? _That_ did." He drops his gaze, trying to soften the accusation because this is all supposed to be _past_ now. "You were talking like you thought you were going to suddenly start beating the crap out of me for no reason, and that I'd just sit there and let you, and it sounded like you were making your warpath _my_ fault." 

He takes a breath, watches Daryl in his peripheral, because now's not the time to put him under a microscope. Whatever he'd been about to say seems to have dried up; Paul can't help the small flicker of _so there_ thrumming in the back of his head. 

"Shit. Uh. Didn't mean to." 

Giving him another minute to gather his thoughts, Paul allows himself to move the cold pack to the back of his head, even though he doesn't think he needs it. 

"Thing is," Daryl says, "I _know_ I was freaking out, but right then I was just-" his hands twitch as he shrugs; he doesn't look up when Paul angles his head towards him. "It just kinda came out of nowhere. I've had no fucking problem punching Spencer, if I'd gotten to him. Which, uh. Yeah." He sighs, the unspoken _not that it changes anything_ audible enough. "But for a second, I was sure that I was gonna turn it all on you. Didn't plan for it, didn't want to, was halfway to doin' it anyway when my brain kicked back in."

"But you stopped."

Daryl snorts, shaking his head. "Not really."

Daryl wouldn't be so prone to hangnails if he'd keep his damned thumb away from his mouth, but it's a useful tell. Pushing too hard probably means he'll clam up entirely, dragging this shit out even longer. 

"So... in between the mess with Spencer and the mess in your quarters, what was going through your head? Talk me through it."

Daryl snorts again, looking at him like it's the most ridiculous question he's ever heard, but the fact he's giving it some thought is a good sign. Eventually, he drags a hand down over his face and sighs. "I dunno. It's like, your dad's an asshole, an' you spend so much time lookin' over your shoulder, you don't realize your brother's turnin' into one too. When you do, it's to late to stop it from happening. Makes you grow up dead sure you're gonna wind up exactly the same's them. Years go by. You finally think you got over it, that you _made_ it, or some dumb shit. Then, first sign of trouble, you fuckin' _swan dive_ right into it, and your excuses don't turn out any better than theirs."

Paul doesn't know where to start. It might be the most words he's ever heard Daryl string together on one breath. 

"They were violent?"

Daryl wavers, then nods. "Dad was worse, but Merle would just pull shit that meant playing along just enough that he'd fuck off and leave you alone."

"Either way, sounds exhausting."

"Still better than waking up one day realizing you turned into them."

"Yeah, well. At least you're trying not to."

Daryl shrugs. "Ain't like they were waking up _planning_ to be assholes every morning."

"Then you're better at the _trying_." 

Daryl seems to give it some thought, and Paul thinks he's about to smile or something, but instead he just shrugs and looks away. "Easy enough to say that _now_. Let's see what happens next time shit hits the fan."

"All right."

"Huh?"

"I mean, if you're going to be that stubborn, let's at least make it interesting. You start beating the hell out of everyone for no good reason, I'll give you the rest of my whiskey. Shit hits the fan and everything's fine, you give me yours."

"That seems like the wrong way 'round."

"I'm not going to try stealing whiskey from a man on a rampage." And if Paul loses the bet, stealing another bottle will be the least of their problems.

Daryl's mouth twitches; this time the smile holds. "This the kind of logic you're gonna use with NATOPS?"

"Fuck, I don't know." 

But who knows, maybe. It seems to be working so far. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 9/23/2149, 08:10_

It's a little telling- or at least it _should've_ been- that nobody had followed the noise of them sparring. 

"Sorry about last night," Sasha says, passing him a mug of coffee. "Think I'm just getting _really_ sick of being stuck up here. You want some apology pancakes while the pan's hot?"

"Sure," he replies, trying to think up a not-completely ham-fisted way of returning the apology when she turns to look at him. 

"What's that on your neck?" 

"Huh?" He blinks, wondering why she's using that tone, and pulls his collar aside. "Bruise."

"Oh."

_Oh._

God, this is embarrassing. "Was sparring with Paul last night."

Sasha nods as she fusses with the batter she's made up; even from here he her trying not to grin. "That makes sense now. The crashing around, the laughing, the closed doors...wait. You two _are_ good now, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Like _how_..." She sees the look he's shooting her and holds up her spatula. "Okay, okay, I know, I'll stop, you can stop with the laser death glare."

He rubs a hand over his face and tries to decide how rude it would be to just get up and leave. But the food smells decent enough. 

Even if the pancake she passes him is shaped like a goddamned heart, and she won't stop fucking giggling. 

Like she knows, like she can look into his mind and pull up that moment, when they were sitting there, Paul holding the coldpack to the back of his head and grinning at him. The thought occurring to him that maybe Paul would be okay with letting him fix things. Not just the ceasefire, or whatever they were calling it, but actually _fixing_ things, making them back like they were. 

He hadn't known how, though. Or if he'd just been misreading it or what.

He hadn't even really known then how much he'd wanted to. _Wants_ to. 

Fucking hell.


	50. Chapter 50

_Saturday, 9/27/2149, 15:15_

The bridge is staffed around the clock, now, with Mitch and Laura alternating six hour on-call shifts when they're not running the controls directly. And it's weird. They've been orbiting Earth for days, scrambling to get everything ready for landing and getting even less sleep than usual, but their days go by faster. Even the bridge shifts are more bearable, even when Laura's riding shotgun. 

It's about the only time anything feels normal, long as he doesn't stop to think about it. 

Between shifts, he and Dwight have managed to get the cargo bay mostly packed up; now they're just waiting for their window. Everything's ready for the moment when Earth gives them landing clearance. Until their actual descent, there's not much to do but actually address the low priority cosmetic flags on the job queue. 

Some of them had been there for months, but for the most part, nobody on board had really minded the scuffs along the corridor floor. They hadn't managed to restore the infirmary, so there hadn't been much point in dealing with the smoke-stained walls. But Sasha's been insisting that they put their best foot forward when it comes to the inevitable NATOPS boarding. 

Dwight, when pressed, will admit that he doesn't think they'll give a damn. Everyone else is ready to point that out at the drop of a hat, but they need something to do while they wait. 

They only get NATOPS comms bounced to shipwide whenever they're passing over India or North America, and even then it's usually only enough for a quick update on their window. As of this morning, it looks like their window's only slightly shorter on account of the storm that's slated to come through, but that could change. It's done so five times in the past two days; yesterday, they'd been told that if they missed it, they'd have to wait another nine days for everything to line up properly again. 

More pressing are the proximity alerts warning them of approaching satellites, space junk, and satellites that have _become_ space junk. For the most part, they've managed to steer clear of all of the junk; the most they've come in direct contact with has been a torn sheet of mylar that had plastered itself to the side of the RV, sending every sensor on the fritz for hours before they'd managed to shake it. 

There's an American probe losing orbit not too far from their path, though; if they're in the right position tomorrow, they'll be able to see it hit the ocean. Or possibly the coast of Australia. 

Daryl's already decided not to try and watch. 

The quiet's been taking some getting used to. The engine's running at a mere 90 miles per hour, nothing at all, compared to what they'd been used to, and the ride's been so smooth that it's possible to forget the fact that they're moving at all, until you look out the window. For the first time in months, there's something resembling a static view. 

And it's turning them all into distracted idiots. 

Carl's leaning against the window opposite the commons, leaving a greasy mark on the glass when he lifts his head off of it. "I just want to get _down_ there, already." 

Daryl steps up to the window and lets himself look down; there are huge, swirling clouds over Asia as it recedes towards the horizon, and there are lights coming on underneath as sunset approaches. If he keeps staring, it'll only be another few minutes. Angled as they are, it's possible to see sixteen of them in a day from this window. The bridge affords a more impressive view, when they're oriented right- sixteen sunrises as well- but after two weeks they're all starting to look the same. 

"I hear you," Daryl says, even though he's not sure he agrees. He can't remember much of his geography, really, but it seems whenever they pass over North America at night, there are far fewer lights than he remembers, especially along the east coast. 

It's not like he hadn't known that cities had fallen and that almost everywhere had gone to energy rationing, if they hadn't fallen off the grid completely, but it's unsettling to look at what he's pretty sure is New York City and seeing nothing at all. 

"Got some work to do in the meantime," he says. "Could use some help in the infirmary."

Carl looks at him like it's the last thing he wants to do, or like he's going to suggest that he ask somebody else, but Dwight's got the bridge, Laura's backing him up. Mitch and Sasha are- or at least _should_ be sleeping, and Paul's holed himself up in his room typing away on another draft of his opening arguments. 

They can hear him muttering to himself as they walk past on their way down to the cargo bay, but neither of them comment. Throwing the bolts as they work their way down, it doesn't take long to get to the bottom crate of the stack. There are only three colors of paint- white, gray, and brown-gray- and it's all thrown in with a mess of other crap. Spare charge plate covers, a few scrub brushes, and sanitizer blocks for the toilet. There's also, it turns out, floor wax that nobody's ever bothered with; it's presence should probably not be mentioned to Sasha. 

\--- 

Carl's using the ladder, but he's also clipped into the ceiling in case of any sudden swerves. Mostly it's just been serving to give him an excuse to see how far overextend his reach just for fun; he kicks the ladder over twice before knocking that shit off. 

"This is the last time I'm doin' this," Daryl says, righting it again, steadying it until Carl's kicking feet can get purchase. 

"Sorry," Carl says, not sounding sorry at all. And then, more honestly, "Sorry."

It's got something to do with the wet splatter that's running down the back of his coveralls. 

"Seriously?"

" _Said_ I'm sorry."

Honestly, Daryl doesn't even care; after an hour, he's plenty paint-spattered already. 

"You remember back on the Colony?"

"Yeah?" He gets back to work, trying to clean up the front of the cabinets. 

"You had wings on your shit."

"Uh-huh." 

"The way it hit kinda looks like that, is all." Carl dabs a bit more at a spot next to the water pipe. "Could do it up proper, if you want."

"Ain't like these are my Sunday best."

"Yeah. But there's still billions of people on Earth, right? Might make you easier to spot in a crowd if we get separated."

He's mid eye-roll when he catches the look on Carl's face. He actually seems to mean it. 

"Don't think it'll come to that." The population will probably be densest around the bases, and that's where they're headed. But two point whatever billion people spread across the whole damn planet _really_ ain't all that many. 

Daryl's never been one to _want_ to be spotted in a crowd, but if it'll make the kid feel better, what the hell. 

"Knock yourself out," he hears himself saying. 

"Yeah?"

"We're already painting shit that don't really need it," he decides. "Ain't like you're wasting anything."

They finish up first, though, before he lets Carl wave him into the chair. It's weird and awkward, like getting a tattoo without really feeling it. He thinks, for a minute, about the ram's head on Merle's gear, getting buried by windswept dust, and then he _stops_ thinking about it. 

"You nervous?" he asks, once Carl's started on the other side. From the feel of it, he's actually painting wings, not, like, _kick me_ or anything. 

"Dunno. Comes and goes. Don't know if I just want to get it over and done with so we can get back, or if I want to just, like, make a run for it and just check shit out and _see_ everything, you know?"

"You run off," he begins to warn him before stopping short. It's not the first time he's had no idea what approach to take. "Just make sure you don't get lost. And don't go too far. Might be a while before the next flight out."

"I know. Just. Haven't _been_ anywhere before, you know? Just the Colony and the ship."

Fuck. Even _Daryl'd_ had field trips, back in school. 

"We'll get down there, maybe we can see what's what, work something out." He thinks Rick would like that, Carl coming back, a year or so older and wiser after some sort of adventure. 

"Yeah?"

"Long as it's safe, and you don't pull nothin' stupid, and-" he looks over his shoulder, and Carl's grinning so damn happily that whatever other conditions he'd been about to place on the still-very-hypothetical field trip don't really seem likely to sink in, so he lets it go. 

Carl snaps back to attention, scowling. "Don't move, you'll fuck it up."


	51. Chapter 51

_Monday, 9/29/2149, 18:55_

"I'm going to save the big toasts for our landing back _home_ , but you know? We made it 74 light years, and I figure that's got to count for something. So thanks to everyone, and good luck to us all, right?" He raises his whiskey- only a half measure as he's about to head back up to the currently unattended bridge- and there's the sounds of clinking glass and surprised laughter as Carl's sloshes over, splashing Dwight's fingers. 

It doesn't take long for the conversation and laughter to start sounding strained, once Mitch leaves, though Daryl does his best not to make it any worse. They're eating through the last of the greens and berries from the disassembled garden, and for all he knows, this will be the last time they're all sitting around the table like this. 

They'll be landing tomorrow, weather permitting- _weather_ , that's a notion unto itself- and he probably could've guessed that people would be getting weird about it. Far as he's concerned, they aren't there yet, and whatever bullshit's awaiting them will still be there when they land. For now, he'll just content himself with the notion of getting out, breathing some actual _fresh air_ , and stretching his legs for a bit. 

Sasha's talking to Paul and Laura about adjusting to being on actual _ground_ again. "No offense," she says, addressing the entire table, "but it'll be fun actually talking to other people, NATOPS or not."

"None taken," Dwight deadpans from across the table, and the two of them make eyes at each other.

"I just want to hurry up and get _down_ there," Carl's telling him, in a near whisper. "Another few days on this thing, I'm going to go crazy."

Nodding, Daryl sips his whiskey, not quite able to stop himself from glancing across the table at Laura. She's smiling, listening to Sasha, but she never talks any more and he's not sure how bad he's supposed to feel about that. This morning, Sasha'd told him that she'd decided to tell the authorities that she'd been motivated by depression and a lover's quarrel that went too far. 

"She still wants to help," Sasha'd said. "It's got to be worth something, at least."

And now she's sitting here, sipping her whiskey and listening to Sasha talking about swimming, and there's no telling what's going on in her head. 

He can't tell what's going on in Paul's, either. It's clear that he's making the effort to appear interested in what Sasha's saying and the questions Carl keeps lobbing at her, but his attention keeps drifting and he's already on his third drink. 

In another day or so, they'll be on the ground. They'll be ushered into quarantine, given their shots, and all that nonsense. 

Everything after that is a blank, and he doesn't know what to do with it. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 9/30/2149, 00:12_

The cargo bay's all packed up and locked down now; even the workbench, exercise equipment, and garden have been broken down into crates and locked down with the rest along the interior wall. The mat on the floor is still stapled down, dwarfed by all the empty space surrounding it. 

There's no good reason for Paul to be down here, but at least there's room enough to pace while he tries to burn off the nervous energy. He hasn't even slept enough lately to earn any in the first place, but his thoughts are jumping from one topic to the next, none of them having any bearing on the seventh draft of his opening arguments. 

But it's peaceful down here, at least. If Sasha and Dwight are still making the most of their last night in their bunk, he can't hear it down here. 

"Wanna spar?" Daryl's standing in the doorway, the sleeves of his coveralls tied around his hips, looking startled by how loudly his voice echoes in the new acoustics of the hold.

Paul grins, shaking his head. Leans back against one of the stacks of lockdown crates. 

"Thought you were up on the bridge."

"Nah, Sasha's shift's already started." As if to emphasize how stupidly late it is, Daryl stretches his arms over his head and cracks his neck. "What're you doin' up?"

"Sat down to go over my notes again. Couldn't bring myself to even look at the damn screen. I mean, I think we're all set, but..."

"But you won't know until you know."

"Yeah."

Daryl goes to the second stack of kitchen crates, rummaging around for a minute and emerging with what has to be the last unopened bottle of whiskey on the ship. Cracking the seal on it, he takes a shot, then scowls. "What?"

Paul hadn't honestly realized he'd been staring. 

"Nothing." 

Daryl puts the lid back on and passes it over; he takes it gingerly. "Probably shouldn't be editing while drunk."

"So don't. Have a drink, pass out and get some sleep. Gonna be stuck in quarantine a week once we put down, anyway."

"Fair point," he says, taking the bottle and looking around. There's really no place to sit- there never really had been- but now there aren't even crates to use as furniture. 

One spot on the floor is as good as the next; it's not until he's already sat down against the wall where the garden used to be that he realizes his feet are exactly where Spencer's had been, the night before they'd found the Ambition. The night Spencer'd found _them_. 

If there's a finer point to be drawn on just how much more lifeless this room is now, he can't think of one. 

"You know," Daryl continues, sitting down on the floor in front of him, his legs stretched out. "If it's givin' you trouble, you could just think of what Spencer would say, then take out all the parts that are bullshit."

Given his own thoughts, the comment's actually not all _that_ far out of left field. 

He pulls a face as the whiskey hits his throat, and holds it out. "Think he would probably point out that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Like I said, bullshit. He was an ass." Daryl's mouth snaps shut guiltily. "Sometimes, I mean."

"True, but I actually _don't_ know what the fuck I'm doing. Here, back on the Colony, whatever's coming up on Earth. I have no clue." 

Fidgeting with the cap, Daryl asks, "What's the biggest, uh, project you had to manage back there?"

"I was in charge of coming up with a long range sustainability plan, and you saw how that all panned out. Before that? Literally, I was in charge of making sure the stage for the half-centennial festivities got built."

Daryl raises his eyebrows.

"It's not exactly on the same scale," Paul admits, before he can point it out.

"No, it ain't." He scratches at his chin; it's probably been a week since anyone's bothered to shave. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Guess if you needed ears to practice on, or somethin' like that, I'm game."

It's Paul's turn to be surprised. "Seriously?"

Daryl snorts. "Yeah. Know you're gonna be in there with Sasha and Mitch, but it ain't like the rest of us are just here for our health." 

He says it easily, like it's obvious. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 9/30/2149, 00:39_

He'd sat up on the bridge long enough to see the sun rise four times over places he's never seen in person, and he'd barely paid it any mind. 

True, he was supposed to be looking for satellites in their path and voices on their bandwidth, but there hadn't been anything interesting enough to knock his thoughts off course. 

He'd counted on Paul still being up. There ain't been a lot of sleep happening anywhere on board tonight. He hadn't even been surprised to not hear him typing away on yet another draft to convince NATOPS to stop being assholes.

And true, there'd been more hope than confidence when he'd found him down here, but now that he has, and now that he's managed to execute the first part of the plan, he's got no idea how to proceed. Maybe he should've sat next to him instead. Maybe that would've been taking one liberty too many.

_So, shit. We're good, right?_ he'd figured he'd start with. Hadn't really had anything in mind if Paul'd decided that no, they weren't, but he'd have to start somewhere. 

He'd been pretty sure he'd known the answer, and so he'd agonized for three hours on his next question. _How good are we?_ was just too damned vague, too weird, even for him. But even he could probably manage to stumble out some sort of _Look. It sucked, not hanging out with you._

They'd been flying over daytime Europe when he'd finally gotten the nerve to frame the question in his own head. 

_Any chance you'd be down to give it another shot?_

Now, though, it just seems dumb. They're going to land tomorrow, and after that, he's got no idea how much they'll even see of each other, how much time they'll have for anything. 

And there's another thing. Paul's fuckin' beautiful, even under the shitty cargo bay lights, bags under his eyes and days past his last shave. He's smart, he's funny, he listens and he runs himself ragged over the small shit because he _gives a damn_. And everyone on Earth ain't gonna know what hit them.

He's going to have, literally, all the options in the world, for however long they're staying. 

Shit's just temporary, sometimes. Even if it don't feel like it. 

"Daryl?"

"Huh?"

"You zoned out for a second."

He blinks, and this, right here, is where he could either shit or get off the pot. 

"Yeah," he says, instead cursing himself a coward. "Think it's getting late."


	52. Chapter 52

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 06:59_

The wings on Daryl's coveralls are a little smudged, but they're mostly symmetrical and Paul's probably only locking onto them and the way they follow the lines of his shoulders because it's the only kind of _something different_ on offer right now that isn't completely nerve-wracking. 

"What do you mean, it's _jammed_?" Daryl's asking Mitch, who puts his hands up and shrugs. "We ran through the tests twice already and no problems."

"And on the _third_ , rear landing gear 2 stuck," Sasha says. "We're gonna need to get it _un_ -stuck within the next three hours, though, if we don't want to lose our window."

"I'm not seeing anything else on the diagnostics," Dwight, who's only been awake for the ten minutes since Mitch had gone on the shipwide to order everyone up here, passes the tablet over to Daryl, who scowls down at it.

"Hey bridge, did you try just rebooting the system?"

"No, Daryl, we just thought we'd skip it and the distress beacon, and move straight to waking you all up just for the fun of it."

"All right, all right," he grumbles, reading more intently for a moment before looking back up at Dwight. "Good news is, it looks like it's just the exterior panel. Long as we don't bend that up too much getting it fixed, we won't have any issues with the shields."

"What's the sensor margin back there?"

"About four inches," Daryl says, looking back down at the tablet. "Kind of tight, but not too bad."

"Better than trying not to die horribly because the landing gears are stuck," Carl adds, helpfully.

"Yeah, yeah," Dwight grumbles, rubbing his eyes. "Mitch, how's it looking up there for some external work?"

"Once we clear the UMB-4 satellite, which should be in ten minutes," Mitch replies, "we should have the better part of an hour."

It's not a _lot_ of time. Better than nothing, at least. 

"If we don't manage to get it fixed," Paul says, because Mitch can't see that Sasha's jaw is set so tight that she's probably at risk of cracking a tooth, and _someone_ needs to point out the obvious, "it'll only be another week or two before another window opens up." 

They'll just have to wait out the storm system that's due to sweep through the eastern US. They've got supplies, they're otherwise in good shape. So there's no reason to panic or rush things. Regardless of how ready everyone is to just _land_ already. 

"Only thing we're rushing for is a week in quarantine," Sasha agrees, rolling her neck as she regards them all. "But I'd still rather be ending that in a week than just starting it."

Nobody disagrees with her, so Paul goes from being concerned about the broken equipment to being _worried_. Because at a word from Mitch, he's watching those bright white wings on Daryl's back as they Dwight away, down towards the airlock.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 07:28_

He's on the tethers, along with Sasha, with Carl running relay and Mitch going back to join Laura up on the bridge. 

"On the bright side," Dwight pulls his rig up over his shoulders with Sasha's help. "This should be the last suitup we have to deal with."

"Yeah, only 'cause anything else goes wrong, we'll be too busy burning up in the atmosphere to deal with it." Daryl's still getting into his sealsuit, and doesn't see the glare Paul shoots at his back, so Paul goes back to double checking that he's stocked their aprons properly with the tools they'll need, and that the haul line's ready to go. 

"Bridge?" Sasha calls out, "how's it looking up there? Seeing anything?"

"Mostly clear. A little trash, nothing major," Mitch replies; a moment later, there's a buzz on the line. Transmission from Earth. 

"This is Dawes at 157," the listening post officer, somewhere on Earth, announces. "Requesting clarification on your last transmission."

Sasha shoots Paul a confused look, but he just shrugs back at her. 

"Hey Trevor, it's Mitch." The static of the open channel underlines his words. "We've got a jammed landing gear, we're gonna get out and take a look at it. How's _your_ day going?" 

Compared to what they'd become used to at the relay stations, the response comes almost immediately, they're _that_ close. "We read _that_ loud and clear," Dawes replies, "We've got eyes on you. But the brass wants to remind you to check your encryption, that distress call went wide."

"Huh," Mitch says, and then, "Ah, shit, sorry. Looks like comms must've reset when we rebooted the system." For their benefit, he adds, "Nothing to worry about, folks."

Dwight and Daryl are already pulling their helmets on.

"No harm, no foul, we're good," Trevor at 157 responds. "I'll stay on the line until your signal bounces over to 212, but it sounds like you've got more pressing matters to attend to."

"Thanks, over and out, see you soon."

"Here," Sasha says out of nowhere, handing Paul a set of gloves before she goes to take care of Dwight's. 

He's seen them suit up before; they're crafty when it comes to getting everything latched properly. There's no reason they need to be helping Dwight and Daryl into them. 

But it's an excuse to grab Daryl's hand for a second, look him in the face, and glare at him.

"We want to be on the ground in a few hours. Not _under_ the ground, all right? If it comes down to it, another week stuck up here is _not_ a big deal."

In the mask's reflection, he can see Sasha and Dwight having a similar exchange. Behind them, Daryl's nodding. But he squeezes his hand, too, when Paul checks the seals. 

\---

 _Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 08:03_

Daryl's not the only one who needs a minute, once they're out there. 

Earth is right below them, so close that he has to turn his head to take it all in, and still far enough away that he can. It looks a picture of the planet that someone else has taken, held right up to his face. It's so bright that he can barely make out Dwight's face through Africa's reflection in his mask. 

"This is fucking _surreal_." 

There ain't much he can say to that.

They stare for a few seconds more before Dwight lets out a sigh and gestures at the next anchor point. "Shall we?"

It doesn't take long to get under to the landing access doors, even as they clip in every few meters. 

It does, however, take a while to determine what the hell is actually _wrong_. It's not the door; it opens easily enough; they even make their way over to landing gear one to see if _that's_ where the issue is. 

But there's nothing. The doors open smoothly. The wheels- each one as tall as Dwight- glide down and lock into place. They rotate properly when Dwight orders the bridge to test them, and they recede back into their up position, their doors sliding shut again without complaint. 

They test it three more times, and can't see a damned thing wrong. 

"Bridge, run a full diagnostics sweep again." Dwight says. "We're not seeing a damned thing."

"You thinking interior connection issue?"

"Could be."

For a few minutes, they just wait. Daryl's got his boots anchored down; Dwight's content to let himself drift about a meter away. 

Which means his back is turned when Daryl sees it coming, up from underneath. At first, he can't even make it out against the sky behind it.

"Hey Dwight, get in here," he says, grabbing his line and hauling down on it hard enough that they both wind up crouched against the hull. 

"Daryl?"

"It's _fine_ ," he says, because Dwight's already engaged the magnets in his boots and the slowly whipping length of cable- an inch wide and over ten feet long, like a garden hose, sails past to smack heavily enough against the hull that they can probably hear it inside. The impact sends it curling unpredictably up around the side of the RV, disappearing from view.

"What was it?" Dwight sounds spooked. 

It's a cable, Daryl's pretty sure, a _big_ one. Enough that if it had caught him, he'd be sent off balance at the very least. It's too damned easy to picture it whipping around him like a fucking python. 

Laura's on the line, her voice tight. "We didn't see anything-"

"I didn't either, 'til I did," Daryl grumbles. It probably hadn't shown up as much of anything on the sensors, and it hadn't crossed the hull's field of view. "You got anything yet?"

"Nothing," Mitch confirms, after a moment. "All right. We're going to run it one last time, and if you can't see anything, I'm calling you back in."

"All right," Dwight says, nodding at Daryl before straightening up, just slightly. 

Daryl doesn't feel like making himself a target for invisible space garbage, either. 

The doors open again.

The landing gears go through their entire sequence without a hitch, again. 

There ain't jack shit for them to do out here, so they start following their tethers back to the airlock. 

Which is... waving at them?

"The fuck?" Dwight says. "You seein' this?"

"Yeah." It's the fucking cable, caught around the exterior handle, folded over and spinning like a goddamned windmill.

"Keep sharp," Mitch warns them. "We've got visual on trash up ahead, probably got more heading your way."

"We _know_ ," Dwight waves at Daryl. "Hang tight, I'm gonna grab it."

It's moving slowly, but out here, in the suits, they are too. 

Dwight inches closer, timing the rotations, until he's close enough to grab hold when it comes around again. 

And then he's being flung up, backwards, nearly clearing Daryl's shoulder before his tether jerks him sharply back towards the RV. 

"God _damnit_!"

Daryl manages to haul him back down, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him there while he catches his breath and re-engages his anchors. There's not much he can see of the suit from here, but he checks as best he can.

"You all right?" 

"Fuckin' _fine_ ," Dwight huffs out, the sound of his breath going to static on the line. "Let's just get back inside."

Daryl lets go of him and follows him the few remaining steps to the airlock. 

"All right, we're 'coming in."

"Good idea," Mitch replies. "Opening the outer door now."

Daryl's still too busy scanning Dwight's suit for tears and breaches, at first, to notice that nothing's happening.


	53. Chapter 53

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 08:52_

Paul just stands there, watching the door like an idiot.

"What do you mean, it's not working?" Sasha grinds back into the comms. "Are we talking _landing gear_ stuck or _really_ stuck?"

"It's registering a malfunction, but not a breach."

It's Daryl, rather than Mitch, who responds. "Uh, actually, looking at it from here, the handle's busted. Cable got caught around it a minute ago. Might've unseated it some when we pulled it off."

"Unseated it some?" Daryl scoffs. "The damned thing's _missing_!"

"How's that even happen?" Carl asks, his feet pounding along the upper corridor, heading towards them. 

"We could send them around to the other side," Laura's suggesting. "Failing that, there's the cargo door."

"Daryl? Dwight? How're your suits and compressors doing?"

"No breaches," Dwight confirms, after a moment. "And we've got more than an hour."

They don't, really, if they're going to be moving in time to hit their landing window. Or maybe Paul's looking at it all wrong, latching onto the wrong vital details. He holds out his hand for the tablet Sasha's pulled out of his coveralls, and she hands it over. 

"All right," Mitch says, his voice calm in that way it gets when he's giving orders. "We've got two options. One, we turn it over to manual and send someone into the airlock to open it from the inside. If the door's damaged that badly, I don't know if we'll get it seated again. The other option is that we send them around to the other side." 

"Only problem with that," Laura says, while Paul switches over from the schematics screen to the diagnostics, "is that we're heading into another debris zone, here, so they'd have to contend with that. And retracting the tethers once they reach the other side might be a hassle."

Dwight sounds like he's distracted. "This is the sort of thing that could bite us on re-entry, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then we'll need to take a look at it anyway."

It feels good, having the information in front of him, even though he has no idea how useful anything on the screen actually is. "Dwight? Daryl? How's the door itself looking?"

"Just some pulled wires from the handle," Daryl confirms. "Seems to be seated all right otherwise."

"Weather's getting nasty out here." Dwight adds, sounding a whole lot less sure.

"We're seeing it," Laura replies. "Keep your anchors on and stay low."

"Okay," Paul forces himself to focus on what little he can actually control. "I'm not seeing any issues with the seals on our end..." He checks again, just to be sure. "So it's probably just the exterior handle. Long as we're in manual, we shouldn't have any issues getting them on board."

"All right," Mitch says. "Paul, let's you and I switch out."

"I've got this," he replies, _perhaps_ a bit too quickly. "All due respect." When it comes down to it, he's gone through the training modules for both the airlock and basic navigation of debris fields; the airlock requires a lot less skill. 

Mostly, he doesn't want to announce, just needs to be _here_. 

"If you're sure."

"I am." 

"Okay, then. I want both you and Sasha suited up before setting foot near the airlock. One goes in for the exterior door, the other stays in to work the interior. I want masks and compressors, the whole nine yards. Where's Carl?"

"I'm here," he says from the doorway of the infirmary, perking up at the notion of being given something to do. 

"I'm going to need you to seal off the cargo bay."

"But it's just-"

"Just a precaution. Also an order." 

Paul watches Carl head back up the steps to see to the corridor hatch. Sasha's already pulling her coveralls off, regarding the heavy sealsuits with a look of grim determination. She glances up at him, briefly, and shoots him a surprisingly happy grin. 

"It ain't a spacewalk," she says, getting to work on her coveralls, "but it's something."

\--- 

The suit's heavy, even when he's getting it settled over his shoulders. And it's warm, too well-insulated to be worn indoors. The outer layers are self healing, the wiring is well insulated. The closures, double-checked by Sasha, close up perfectly and the helmet latches in seamlessly. 

The comms channel is already on, but Paul's too thrown by the sound of his own breathing to focus on everyone's voices the way he knows he should. The life support monitor lights are distractingly bright and steady, but not enough to blind him to everything else.

These things are a miracle of engineering, and he still can't breathe for how naked and unprepared he feels when Mitch gives the order for Sasha to open the inner airlock door.

He's startled by the lack of anything happening at all, but then the outer door is still closed, still sealed. It'll stay that way until he's shut her inside that the vestibule will be depressurized. 

"All right," she's telling him. "I'm anchored. Close the door, and remember the signals."

"Will do. Good luck, everyone," he adds, guiltily, remembering that for all his concern, Dwight and Daryl are still actually still _out there_.

He pushes the door shut- it's not as heavy as he'd thought, and seals the hatches one by one, finally turning the bulky dial to engage the bolts. He double and triple checks, with one eye on the systems diagnostics being fed to the control panel. 

Everything looks fine. He pounds on the door three times. 

There's an answering knock, and the sounds of movement, and then, finally, nothing. 

"All _right_ ," Daryl's saying. "She's through, we're coming in."

"That's great. Now let's see if you can get the doors shut _behind_ you," Laura replies, sounding more alive than she's been in weeks. 

"Just. Give me a second," Sasha says. "This is fucking _amazing_."

Paul can imagine it. Standing in the open airlock doorway, looking directly across miles and miles of empty space. Just a mask and a suit and nothing at all until suddenly, _Earth_. He wonders if she's noticing the bulk of the suit now. If it feels like it's enough. 

He can also imagine, all too easily, the scratch in Daryl's mask splintering out horribly. Cracking and cracking and eventually _shattering_ , letting all the nothing in too quickly to stop.

It doesn't matter that the mask in question is actually packed away, just as a precaution. Or that Daryl knows what he's doing. 

It's just that he didn't check, didn't ask, didn't _remind_ him to be-

"Can you-" Dwight's saying, loud in his ear. "Yeah."

"Okay," Daryl grumbles back. Just move back a step, give me room."

"Is it-"

"We've got the exterior door closed," Dwight announces, for the benefit of everyone inside. "So far, so good."

Waiting for the other shoe to drop, Paul can see exactly how much oxygen he's got left. He's not currently using any of it. 

There's nothing, and there's a thudding noise, and then, "Got it!" Sasha's saying. "How're the readouts looking?"

"Looks like complete seal. Go ahead, bridge."

"All right, everyone," Laura announces, her tone making it clear that she might as well be saying, _this is where we find out that things are going to go horribly wrong_. "Pressurizing the vestibule now." 

There's a hiss from the compressor module in the wall; it lasts for a very long time. 

"So far, so good," Sasha informs them. 

"Paul, you keeping an eye on the readouts."

He does; they're simple. They look no different now than they ever had. But he goes over them four times before answering. 

"Looks like we're okay."

"So _open_ the damned thing already," Dwight replies.

The latches all feel loose, but cranking the handle open is a lot harder than closing it had been. Suddenly, though, the door _gives_ , all at once, swinging open to reveal the three of them standing there, their masks reflecting the lights of the cargo bay. It takes him a minute to figure out who's who. 

What's important is that they're all still _there_ , still _standing_. 

"Oh, shit," Sasha giggles. "Are we grounded or something?"

He hadn't even realized he'd been glaring, so he forces himself to relax and rolls his eyes. "You said you'd have them back by midnight," he counters, stepping aside to let them actually board. 

Daryl and Dwight are shaking their hair free of their helmets before they're even through the door; Sasha's seems to be giving her a little trouble, so he steps aside to let Dwight help her out. 

Over comms, Mitch sounds impatient. "Everyone safe and sound?"

Paul grabs Daryl, who's bringing up the rear, and hauling him out of the way so he can close the door. He checks it three times before he's completely willing to turn his back on it and get to work on his own helmet. "All clear."

He shifts, awkwardly trying to find space in between everyone's elbows. His fingers are stupid and clumsy through the gloves; he changes tack and sets to working on them, first, only to find that suddenly, there's a wisp of cool air at his neck and the helmet's been worked loose. 

Daryl's hands retreat once Paul takes over to remove it, but he's still watching him, eyes darting only briefly towards Sasha and Dwight. .

"You good?" 

"Yeah," Paul confirms, wishing, abruptly, that he'd just look away, leave him to awkwardly flounder in peace. So he redirects the conversation. "What happened out there?" 

"Piece of cable, came out of nowhere. I jus' wanna know what the fuck happened _in here_." 

Daryl's working his arms out of his suit; Paul works on his own collar, finding himself suddenly unable to look at him until Daryl grabs his shoulder. He's smirking, just trying to keep his balance as he kicks his lets free. Freed of his suit, he grabs Paul's hand, bringing it up to his own shoulder so he can take over human crutch duty. "Shit don't usually just start working out of nowhere."

His free hand goes to Paul's side, steadying him without seeming to think about it, only a stolen glance at his face clearly says otherwise.

And yeah, Paul hears what he's saying, but honestly? He's thinking that sometimes, it just might.


	54. Chapter 54

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 09:43_

They've hit their window. Soon as he's done in here, they'll be given their orders, ready to go for landing. 

He's not sure what he's expecting, stepping out of the shower, suit-sweat finally gone, but Mitch's voice- the anger and _accusation_ it carries, throws him. 

"What the fuck did you _do_?"

"I-" 

One word- barely that- from Laura's mouth, and Daryl's spine goes rigid. He dries off, barely, shoving his damp legs into a fresh set of thermals; he has to fight them up over his knees. The coveralls, at least, come on more easily.

It's the last easy thing that'll happen today. 

He slides the bathroom door open to find everyone already assembled in the commons, though none of them pay him any mind as he finishes doing up his coveralls. They're all staring at Laura, looking horrified.

"What'd I miss?"

Paul's eyebrows are raised, he hangs his mouth open as he shakes his head.

"Earth just confirmed that our distress signal got intercepted," Mitch says, crossing his arms. "The SA knows we're coming."

"Okay?"

"No, _not_ okay. It's a miracle they're still letting us _land_. They're scrambling to move defenses into place, which it _seems_ they weren't quite ready to do."

If the SA's in the area, it's probably more alarming that they hadn't been prepared for it, but arguing that point doesn't seem like the best thing to point out. 

"And the entire reason for _that_ ," Mitch begins to pace, "is because of the distress beacon, which was sent out unencrypted. While I was two feet away, and _before_ the reboot."

"It was an accident," Laura's saying, her arms crossed defensively. The bench she's sitting on has been pulled away from the table. Carl, Sasha, Dwight and Paul are standing in a group by the doorway, about as far from her as it's possible to get. 

It looks like interrogation. It feels like it's about to become something worse. 

"Don't give me that shit, Laura, I saw the logs." Mitch is standing just a few feed behind her; it would be easy for him to reach out and wring her neck. "You keyed in my code."

Paul takes half a step forward, though neither of them seem to notice. 

"Mitch, wait up."

" _What_."

Daryl takes a few steps as well, though he's got no idea what he's doing. 

"Have they cancelled the landing?"

"No-"

"Then we need to focus on _that_ ," Paul decides, nodding at Daryl. If it's a signal, he doesn't have the encryption key to translate it. 

Ha.

"We still got the window?" Daryl asks; Laura nods, but he ain't lookin' at her. 

"Yeah, you're right." Mitch, finally seems to remember himself as turns to check the time on the control panel. "Laura, get your ass to your quarters, I don't want to even look at you right now. Daryl, you go, keep an eye on her." He sounds resigned, a little tired, but at this angle, Daryl's the only on in the room who can see his expression.

 _Do what you have to_ , he's telling him, before turning back to the group, and Daryl's attention follows. Paul's looking back at Daryl like he's seen everything, but he doesn't say a word. 

"Everyone, like we talked about. Suits and masks and stabilization." 

\--- 

He has to duck into his quarters to grab his gear, sealing the hatch behind him before edging down the hall to suit up while keeping an eye on Laura. Down the corridor, Sasha's heading down to double check the airlock, infirmary and cargo bay doors, while Dwight ducks into their quarters to drag out their suits. He emerges a moment later,dropping it all on the floor, and sees to the empty rooms along the corridor. 

The ship's smaller now. The comms are open, but Mitch ain't saying much of anything yet. 

Laura's still getting her suit on, and right now, Daryl could care less whether it's done properly or not, but Carl, edging out from his door, helmet in hand, is another story. 

Daryl sets his own helmet down, the thick gloves tucked inside, as he waves him over. 

"You doin' okay?" He asks, checking his collar first, and working his way down. Every closure, every seam and latch is checked twice. He prides himself by not reacting when he finds the joint at Carl's wrist isn't properly secured, but he can't do anything abut Carl _knowing_ about it as he fixes it. 

"Uh. Yeah?"

"Don't worry," he tells him, tucking the lining back in and resetting the glove into place as the seal takes properly, this time. "It's why we're doin' this."

Like this is how it's supposed to be going. 

Really, the only thing that's different is that Laura's not up on the bridge backing Mitch up. And the two of them will be tying in to the stabilization straps inside her quarters, rather than in the corridor with everyone else. 

"You gonna leave the door open?" Carl asks, peering up at him worriedly through his mask as Daryl tugs the stabilization straps over him.

He shakes his head. Protocol. With the doors all sealed, the corridor's the safest place to be in the event of an external breach. 

"Well," Carl musters up a bloody-minded grin that reminds him of Rick's, "you'd better double check your shit, then."

They've got shields. They've already hit atmosphere; in a few minutes, even if there's a breach in Laura's quarters, their odds of survival are already much better than they'd been a few minutes ago. The suits and compressors are just to prevent anyone from passing out. 

"Yeah, yeah," he says, already running the numbers. "I'll leave it open until Mitch gives the word, all right?"

Carl's nod looks relieved, though he's still frowning as he peers down at himself. In practice, he can probably only see the readouts of his helmet. "Cool. I'll just be standing here, I guess."

"It ain't _just_ anything, all right? But something goes wrong, shout. I'll be four feet away."

"Be careful." 

He grabs Carl's gloved hand, squeezes it and lets it go. "You too, keep sharp."

With that, he tucks his gloves under the belt of his suit, and turns his attention to his own helmet. He's dawdling and he knows it. Over by the steps leading down, Dwight and Sasha are off comms, helmets still in hand. Kissing each other for luck. Giving them some privacy, he looks away, up to where Paul's emerging from sealing off the kitchen, bathroom, and finally the commons. 

He gives him a thumbs up; even through the relative darkness of the corridor, he can see the tense grin on his face. Daryl returns it, and, with a final nod at Carl, ducks into Laura's quarters. 

"Everyone, get your suits on."

"Working on it," Paul responds. "Everyone's looking good."

He leaves the door open, edging inside just far enough that he can pull the stabilization straps from their slots in the wall. On the other side of the doorway, Laura's already threaded her arms through. Her helmet's on, the straps are latched, and that's just about all he's going to worry about with regards to her.

She probably knows it. Maybe she even knows that there's a part of him that's honestly thinking how much simpler it would be, if a breach happened, if she lost consciousness. If she hit her head just right because her helmet came off. 

But he forces the thought down, keeps his mouth shut. 

The ship's starting to shake before Mitch announces they've reached the magnetosphere; all glancing out Laura's window tells him is that the omnipresent blue glow is getting stronger. It'll still be a while- about ten minutes and thousands of kilometers, before they hit the exosphere. 

It's happening too fast. 

They're going to shake apart.

And Paul's pausing in the open doorway like it's nothing. At least he's got his fucking suit on; as far as Daryl can tell, everything's sealed properly.

For a second, he wonders if he's come to make sure he hasn't suddenly decided to strangle Laura, but he's only looking at Daryl. More specifically, he's taking the time to glare at the straps that he's suddenly contemplating freeing himself of so he can shove Paul against the corridor wall and see to _his_. 

"All set?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging as best he can, and pointing at the lock-in point next to Carl's. "Strap in."

Through the mask, Paul's eyebrow quirks. "So _hurry your ass up_ so I can get to it."

He does so, keeping his eyes down because he doesn't want to accidentally look up and register whatever's on Laura's face as she watches them. Dragging the cross-chest strap into place, he clicks the connectors shut. 

"There, satisfied?"

Paul nods, once, and finally looks back up at him, catching himself on the doorway as the RV drops again. 

"Be careful, all right?" 

And there are so many things he needs to tell him but now ain't the time or the place- it _definitely_ ain't the audience- but _none_ of this is happening right. The best he can manage is reaching out to grab Paul's shoulder, and even that, only for a second. 

"You first," he tells him, squeezing once- getting more suit than actual shoulder, before letting go. He forces a grin and a confidence that he can't honestly claim. "Fuck's sake, man. I'll see you on the ground."

Paul nods. Looks like he's gonna say something, but then Mitch is on the line, wanting confirmation that all the hatches are secured. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 10:20_

Mitch has it all under control.

The ship's shaking apart, the control panel is lighting up with _too many_ alerts, and they're dropping-

"Okay, we've hit the stratosphere," Mitch informs them, sounding too happily unaware of the flashing red emergency likes for Daryl's liking. 

"Relax," Laura tells him, and he's so startled by the sound of her voice that he forgets to not look at her. 

There's steel in her eyes when she tells him they're fine. "Ain't his first rodeo. Mitch knows what he's doing ."

"He'd better." 

She's supposed to be up there with him, after all. She's supposed to be _helping_. 

Though, whatever the fuck's going on with her, maybe it's for the best that she ain't. 

He closes his eyes again, tries not to bite through his tongue, though the RV's starting to even out, even though everything's still too loud- the engines, the alarms, the sound of his own underneath it all and-

"Everyone okay?"

Sasha's shouting, though she don't really need to, over the comms, and Daryl focuses all his attention on the space that the answering voices fill. Carl first, then Dwight, they're fine. 

He tries to swallow, but he can't- Paul's voice ain't-

"I'm good," Paul says, voice tight. "Daryl? Laura?"

"We're still here," he says, because _good_ ain't quite cutting it. 

Laura looks like she's about to say something, so he turns his head away. 

There's _blue_ out there. Not just the thin, northern lights kind of glow that's been creeping up from the bottom of their windows for weeks, but clear blue _sky_ , getting brighter by the second. As if on cue, Mitch confirms it. 

"Just like flying an airplane," he says, confidently, just as ground control buzzes onto the line. 

"Sagan RV, this is 212. We've got you. Adjust your heading north by point zero five."

 _North_ , 212 says, like the word means something. Because suddenly, Daryl realizes, it actually does. 

They're not on the ground, and he's still got a death grip on his stabilization straps, but they're close enough that cardinal directions actually mean something again. 

_Close enough to crash, too_ , he can't help thinking.

But Mitch has got them, and there might be alerts blaring everywhere, but they've still got internal pressure. They've still got air. 

They're almost there. 

His legs are starting to feel heavy, rooting themselves to the floor as the gravity starts to pull. He couldn't move his hands if he wanted to. Someone's talking over the comms but he can't hear what they're saying. 

His ears are starting to pop.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 10:29_

"-course confirmed," a voice is saying, though it takes all of Paul's focus to parse out the words over all the other noise. "Sagan RV, you've got the lane."

"This is it!" Sasha calls out, yelling into her comms and still only barely making a dent. He has to fight just to raise his head enough to see Carl giving her what might be a thumbs up. 

Paul's turning his head to look at Laura's closed door when Carl's arm, still extended out like it is, dips in a sickening wave as the floor suddenly _hits_ , sending a new roaring vibration up through the floor and the wall behind. 

Paul thinks he bites his tongue. His entire mouth hurts; he can taste blood. 

The rattling of his helmet against the wall abates only slightly as he's finally able to move his head forward; it moves so heavily and quickly that he thinks he's going to be sick. 

He's regained movement in his limbs, but they're heavy, and every joint in his body aches, and the only reason he's not worked his way up to worrying about it is that he's too focused on registering it. 

"Welcome to Earth," Mitch is calling out over the comms. "Everyone stay locked in until I say otherwise. Got a little bit of road to clear before we actually stop." There's a sharp, strange sound. It takes Paul a moment to realize that he's laughing, that Sasha and Carl are getting caught up on the wave of nerves.

They made it to Earth. 

And there's nothing but silence on the line where Daryl's voice should be. 

"Everyone okay?" he asks, trying again to look up, his vision swimming too much to care if he's heard. "Daryl?"

There's no response at first, just the sounds of laughter giving way to nervous silence, and then, _finally_ , Daryl's voice. 

"We're good," he says, and something in Paul's spine that he doesn't even know he'd been carrying eases, just from hearing it. "Just let us know when we can get out of these damned things."

He's going to hug him at the very least, Paul decides. As soon as his arms work again. 

\--- 

He doesn't get the chance. 

After what drags out into a small eternity, the noise and the shaking abates. Mitch cuts the alarms first, and then even the warning lights go dark. 

There are thirty seconds of completely blissful silence before the aches in his bones make themselves known again. His arms and legs feel so heavy that Mitch is already coming through the front hatch by the time he can even muster the energy to move. 

Mitch reaches him first, starts working on his stabilization straps, but he manages to shake his head and raise his hand to point. "I'm fine, get the _door_."

Without missing a beat, even though his steps are a bit uneven, Mitch moves to do so. His helmet's off already, his voice muted through the mask. 

"-so we're gonna have to move fast. They're bringing the causeway out now, gonna trundle us over to quarantine right out the gate, so be ready to move. SA's closing in on our position, so we don't have a lot of time." 

He's cranking the hatch of Laura's door open, and before Paul can see much of anything, he's tugging Laura out by her arm. She'd been working her helmet off; it sits loosely on her shoulders as the two of them trudge past, on towards the rear of the RV. 

Finally, Paul manages to get his arms free, and he nearly falls to his knees letting it happen would certainly be easier than fighting gravity. The only reason he doesn't go any further is that Daryl's already there, and there's not enough room for them both to go down. 

"Rough landing?" Daryl's pinned against the wall, and it would be embarrassing if down the way, Carl wasn't hitting the floor. 

He seems content enough just to sprawl there for a minute, so Paul leans into Daryl a bit more deliberately this time. "Think I liked take-off better."

He can sense Daryl's regard more than he sees it as he shifts enough to work his helmet free; he drops it and Paul can feel it bounce against his ankle. His hair's matted and damp, sticking to his neck, but then he's pushing Paul's shoulder, just enough to start working _his_ helmet off, too. 

"Company was a hell of a lot better," he tells the back of Paul's head, "I'll give you that."

Letting him deal with the helmet is easier than raising his arms, but he shoves the embarrassment down by trying to find his balance again. Planting his feet more firmly, he finds that he's able to stand.

He's reluctant to leave, though, even as he notices that Carl's hauled himself up and is heading to follow the others. 

The rear hatch leading down seems to be giving Dwight some trouble; Sasha's barking out laughter, saying something about what she'll do if they get stuck there. 

In a minute, they're going to be going through the airlock and into the causeway. He's pretty sure that's what the noise is, outside. It's been a while since he's heard anything at all out there. He hadn't even realized he'd missed it. 

"Thanks," he tells Daryl as his helmet's dropped to the floor. He's extricated himself enough to move, but can't quite bring himself to do so. 

The rear hatch finally gives; people are starting to make their way gingerly down towards the airlock. It's time to go. 

Instead, he drags his hand up, only barely managing to get it around Daryl's back. It's brief and feels halfhearted, but it's all his stupid limbs are capable of at the moment. It'll get better, soon. He just needs to acclimate. 

In the meantime, he lets himself be satisfied the weight of Daryl's arm wrapping around his shoulder, even if it nearly makes his knees give out as they move to follow the others. It's the gravity, mostly. 

But right now, right _here_ , suddenly, on _Earth_ of all places, he finds that he doesn't much mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. 
> 
> Okay, that's it, I'm done. At least until book three starts up, which I'm totally stoked about because it's the actually story that I'd set out to write in the first place, back in those lovely naive days where I thought I'd be able to handle the backstory through flashbacks. I wasn't lying when I said all this was just prologue, so kudos to you for making it all the way through to this point! 
> 
> Book three- the final one, I swear on my mom- should be starting up soon. Hope you like it, and thanks for your patience!


End file.
